Tonopah Can Wait

Shim is not mentioned in this post.  So if that's what you came here for, you may move along.

“Hey Freddie.  Did I ever tell you about that time we was all outside that gas station in Tonopah Nevada?”

“Yeah Dad.  About a dozen times or so.  But besides that, I was there and …”

“Well anyway.  We was coming down from San Francisco on our way to Vegas when I needed to stop for gas …”

It’s ok dad.  I got this one.

One thing I never quite understood about my dad was how he seemed to find trouble.  I’ve mentioned before that he’s got a ton of stories that he likes to tell.  Most of them are about some bar fight.  Mostly he beat someone senseless.  Every once in a while he will tell a story of somebody getting the best of him.  When he tells one of these stories, you can bet there’s a (to be continued).  And unlike me, he actually has another story.  Usually a story that illustrates his great bravery in redeeming himself from the earlier defeat.  Perhaps in the form of “How I learned my lesson and kicked the guy’s ass on the ensuing fortnight.”

But I often wondered how he happened to get into so many fights.  According to him, he never started any fights.  I actually witnessed about half a dozen of these and in my mind at the time, someone had picked the fight with him.  It was amazing.  He was just minding his own business.  Until he wasn’t.

One Wednesday night at Kelly’s Hilltop Bowling Alley …  Wait a minute.  Dad used to bowl on Wednesday nights.  The walls of Kelly’s were all furry.  Hmm.  I used to go with him because I was in love with the daughter of one of his bowling buddies.  I was like 11 and she was 15, so yeah.  I was in love.  She always wore this really cool pair of bowling shoes.  Stolen from a different alley.  I asked her where she got those cool shoes and she said “I copped ‘em.”  I had never heard that term before, but I assumed it meant stole them.  She was so cool.  But I honestly don’t remember anything else she ever said.  I do remember standing on this narrow catwalk against the wall by the front entrance.  I’m not sure why.

So one night, after the WNBW (Wednesday Night Bowling Worlds), my dad and a dashing young fella walked calmly toward the back exit of Kelly’s.  I wondered where they were going.  I looked at my brother and we shrugged as the big grey metal door to the stairs to the exit slammed shut.  Roughly 20 seconds later, The steel door opened and my dad walked over to us and said, “let’s go.”

Next, the man who had gone outside with my dad came through the door.  From just above his left eye, streaming all the way down his face and on down the length of his white turtleneck was a deep red trail of blood.  He didn’t say anything.  He just walked over to gather his things.

“What happened to him,” I asked my dad.  There hadn’t seemed to be any anger between the 2 of them, but the guy looked like he’d been punched. 

“Oh he just fell down the stairs,” my dad said.  Seeing I was squinting at him, doubting him, He continued, 

“Yeah.  He tried to cop a Sunday as we got to the landing then lost his balance and fell down the stairs after I nailed him in the eye.”

Now I was trying to reconcile the meaning of the word “cop.”  I asked, “He stole some ice cream?  What?”

“No son.  He tried a surprise attack.”

“But why was there a fight.”

My dad has a way of getting on your nerves if you are losing some contest to him.  He gloats.  Endlessly berating you and saying you suck and everything.  Laughing and pointing, etc.  I think this is where I learned to win with grace.  Too bad I don’t win very often, because it would be a treat for the others to see how graceful I am at it.   

I’m not saying he was doing this taunting that night.  I wasn’t paying attention, so I can only guess. I was hanging out with Penny, the bowling shoe thief, who I was in love with by the way.    

What I know about the events of that night, I have gathered from eyewitness testimony.

The guy Dad punched was on the other team.  The other team was losing. Dad was having a particularly good night of bowling.  He was getting a lot of what they call “strikes” which are good in bowling.  He was jumping very high with each new strike.  I believe the night was already won, but dad was still shouting in exaltation, because he does that. 

The guy who later fell down the stairs had been mumbling something for a while.  Each time my dad walked by, he thought he heard something.  Eventually he inquired as to the content of the mumbling.  Then turtleneck calmly explained, “Yeah – I said you’re a son of a bitch.”

Rew>

If you’ve never seen “Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid,” Then I don’t want to be your friend anymore.  Go see it and come back and read the rest of this.  It will be beneficial for 2 reasons.  “Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid” is one of the most wonderful movies of all time ever.  And B) Calling my dad a “son of a bitch” is kind of like saying “Cleaning Woman” to Rigby Reardon.

So go watch "Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid."  I'll wait.

Man was that a good movie or what?  I can't believe you've never seen it before.  Friend.

When my dad was about 3 or so, his mother was having headaches.  And even though it was the late 40’s, they all said the tumor would have been completely operable if she had not been misdiagnosed as needing glasses.  It was tragic.  She was about 22 years old. 

I never really understood the “Your mama” thing.  First of all, we called her “Mom” and second of all I didn’t understand they were implying that my mother was some sort of pedophile.

But anyway, if someone called my dad a “son of a bitch,” he took it personally.  I guess to him, you might have well said, “I heard that when you were a little boy, your mother died of a benign brain tumor.  That’s very sad.  What a bitch she must have been.”

So when the bowling alley guy called Dad a “son of a bitch,” He most likely hadn't expected a sudden invitation outside.

Well, I never got to the Tonopah story, but it’s probably just as well.  I wasn’t sure how to describe the antagonist in that tale.  The description is easy.  Think “The Cleveland Show.”  What’s difficult is doing the scene justice without sounding like a huge racist.  The thing is, “Cleveland,” upon getting into the little altercation with dad, suddenly “put on” some sort of affectation that was clearly designed to put the fear in the white man.  If the weather doesn’t improve, I’ll explain next week.  Otherwise, I’ll most likely talk about one of my bike rides. 

Penny update: A few months back, I was on the phone with Dad.  He was saying he went to his old friend Ed’s funeral.  I asked if it was the Ed he bowled with.  He said it was.  So what the hell – “Was his daughter Penny there?”

“Oh yeah, I talked to her. Real nice gal.  Got a bunch of adult kids,”  dad said.

I confessed, “You know, I had a big crush on her when I was a kid.”

Then he kind of laughed, “You wouldn’t anymore, son.  You wouldn’t anymore.”  Then we both nodded into the phone and quietly hung up.

It’s hell gettin’ old ain’t it

The thirty year reunion for my High School is this year.  There’s a lot of chatter on Facebook amongst the alumni.  Many of them are now living out-of town and are organizing festivities for reunion weekend.  One woman (from out of town) was talking about how she’s going to go for a run across the BK bridge and get a few miles in.  She invited all who are willing to join her.  Now I won’t join her or the others, because I think running is stupid.

Actually, I don’t think that at all.  I would like to mix it up a little and go for the occasional run.  But whenever I try, I get some serious pain in my hip.  It only goes away after I stop running for a few days.  If I try to keep running through the pain, it gets bad enough that I can barely walk. It’s hell getting’ old, ain’t it.

I talked to my doctor about it and told him I thought that since riding never bothers my hip, I could just do that for exercise and forestall any hip replacement or anything.  He was cool with that.  Besides, he explained to me that running is dumb.  Hey.  He's the doctor.

Anyway, this woman from High school.  She’s all “Hey people.  Reunion run!  Who’s in?”  Then she starts calling certain people out.  “I know Bob wants to put bandaids on his nipples.  C’mon Bob.  Run with us!”  etc.

Some of the responses reminded me that all the kids I went to high school with have been aging all this time even though I haven’t seen them that much.  I am 48 and a half.  It makes me feel younger to say “and a half” because only children say that.

One guy responded with, “Run?  Are you kidding me?  I could barely get out of a car and walk to the bridge, let alone run.”

Then another guy (Jimmy) said, “It’s hell gettin’ old, ain’t it?”

No Farmer John.  It’s not “hell getting’ old”. On the contrary.  It might be one of the easiest things to do ever.  It involves virtually no action on your part.  All you have to do is sit there.  And before you know it.  Tada! You’re old. 

What’s tricky is not getting old.  Jack Lalanne simply refused to believe that getting old was necessary.  I think he actually believed that if he took care of himself correctly, he would not grow old and die.  And even though he paid the ultimate price for his folly, it’s hard to argue that his obsession with fitness didn’t play a part in his 96 relatively healthy years.

But I’m having a little fun here.  We know what Jimmy meant.  But it’s wrong.  It’s hell getting out of shape.  It takes a certain effort to get into or maintain fitness.  It is more important to stay fit as you age, because it is more difficult to get it back once lost.  Not impossible.  But certainly more work.  It’s like maintaining a speed vs. accelerating back up to speed after slowing down (accelerating is harder).

In many of the past incarnations of me getting into shape, I’d get to a point where I didn’t see improvement and quit.  I’m not going to do that anymore.  I was missing the point.  This year I realized that these fast bike riding mother fuckers I ride with can’t be getting faster year after year.  In other words, they are maintaining.  As previously mentioned, I am a slow learner.

So now, I plan to just get as good as I can and maintain as much of it for as long as possible.  I will say that I don’t believe an old body is suited to losing fitness and regaining as I’ve done over and over for the past 15 years.

It helps that I was never in top physical form when I was younger.  I know a lot of these guys from high school were active and see that they can’t do what they used to, so they throw in the towel.  Some of them have worn themselves down one way or another.  So I get that.

I was always suited more to endurance type of activities than others around me.  Luckily for my ego, I never much pushed myself to my limit so whatever I achieve these days usually surpasses what I did when I was younger.  Mostly.   

When I was a 19 year old smoker who never exercised, I once told a girl I could swim a lap of the pool at the YMCA (2 lengths) underwater.  Well I was really out of breath when I came up, but I actually ended up going 2 laps (4 lengths) without coming up for air. 

Last summer, I was in what I considered to be my best shape ever.  Jack and I went swimming quite a bit.  After a few weeks, I decided to see if I could get one length under water.  Nope.  Maybe half.  Part of that was my brain.  It’s better now than when I was 19.  Last summer, my brain said, “Hey, go on up and get a breath. You will positively love it!”  I wanted to continue, but I thought it unwise.  So I didn’t even make it one length. 

When I was 11, I made 1 length under water with jeans and a t-shirt on.  It was part of our swim lesson training and I was the youngest one in the class and I was showing off.

So there it is.  Proof to me that no matter how hard you work to maintain or even improve fitness, age becomes a limiter.

But the comment.  The one about “hell gettin’ old.”  It struck me.  Yes – I frequently make comments about my age.  Or Shim’s age because he is way, way older than me.  Like 2 years or something.  Which by my math, puts him over 50.  The magical “all down hill from here” age.  Go for a bike ride with Shim and he will repeatedly show you the true meaning of “over the hill”.

Rider one, struggling up some climb:  Shim’s over the hill.

Rider Two:  No shit.  But where is he?  Oh you mean literally.

I’ve heard everything really starts going bad at 50.  I heard it about 40 and 45 too.  I will hit 50 in about a year and a half and I completely expect to wake up on that day suddenly weak and completely out of shape.  I imagine, I’ll get on my bike and ride it painfully to the Trek store to trade it in for a recumbent or a comfort bike or maybe even one of those recumbent 3-wheel jobbies or something. 

When I talk about some of the things we do, people say “At your age?”  But that’s only because they’ve forgotten the most important thing.  That they would do well to eat some shit and then go ahead and die.

A couple of years ago, a friend of mine broke his ankle.  He was on his skateboard.  Well, I assume he wasn’t at the time of the break.  He posted photos of himself lying in serious pain at what looked like the bottom of a pool.  Thankfully, the pool was empty or he might have drowned.  Actually it was probably a skate park. 

Anyway, he’s about my age.  We went to high school together.  Reaction to his mishap was mixed.  Some people were obviously supportive and admired the fact that he was out there living life.   Others (who I think I might hate – I should look into the reason some time) suggested that he’s too old for that sort of thing. 

Umm.  Why?  Young people break their ankles, right?  So to make sure I’ve got the thinking here, after he broke his ankle, he was laid up for a while and couldn’t do much of anything.  He was injured.  People were saying he was too old to be active.  He needed to lie around and do nothing. 

Lying around doing nothing is for injured people.  Not old people.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some mall walking to do.

This Post May Suck, But You Know What Doesn't?

“I’ll tell you what,” Chris assured us, “You could buy a Hoover, but you’d be better off taking the money and throwing it out that window.”

At this point, Brian and I held our breaths and looked at each other.  I was trying to silently make Brian laugh out loud and he was returning the favor.  Chris (Brian will know his real name.  He’s just some guy I vaguely remember) was trying to sell us a vacuum cleaner. 

Actually, that’s not true.  He was just telling us about how great the vacuum cleaner was.  He was definitely not trying to sell it to us.  He swore.  The last thing he wanted to do was sell a vacuum cleaner.  That was not his job.  That was the vacuum cleaner’s job.  Oh and by the way, it wasn’t a “vacuum cleaner” he wasn’t trying to sell.  It was a Kirby!

Kirby is not just any old vacuum cleaner.  And Chris was not just any old vacuum cleaner salesman. It was his one and only true passion.  This was not one of those deals where the guy calls you up and offers to vacuum your whole house for free.  Neither Brian nor I had a house.  Or an apartment.  We each lived with our respective parents.  But the party was at Brian’s house.  Or rather, his parents’ house.  Every night.  That’s where all the kids hung out.  There was a rotating group of roughly 10 of us with the occasional visitor.  You never knew who was going to stop by.  It was like when Bob Hope used to just walk on to talk shows. 

But tonight it was just Brian, Chris the not vacuum cleaner not salesman, and me.

About 2 weeks before, Chris had been out of work.  Then he answered an ad to be a Kirby salesman.  His job was cold-calling people and volunteering to vacuum their whole house.

But now, he was off the clock.  My mom had a vacuum cleaner.  I had no use for one as far as I knew.  Brian was in roughly the same boat.  I had a car.  The year was about 1982.  My car was a 1972 Chevy Nova.  I had bought it from my dad for $300 with money I had made working at Wendy’s. 

“Do you have a car?” Chris had cleverly countered my objection that I had no use for a vacuum cleaner.    

“Yeah, but I don’t clean it or anything,” I lied.

Ignoring me, Chris persisted, not selling, mind you.  Teaching.  Removing the beam from my eye, as it were, “Well if you’ve ever tried to vacuum out your car with one of those shitty car wash vacuums, you know what a pain it is.  Plus, 25 cents for 3 minutes?  No thanks.”

“How much are these Kirby’s, by the way?” I asked for the third time.  Remember, we were just sitting around shooting the shit.  Just the regular evening chat. 

“A hell of a lot cheaper than 25 cents for 3 minutes, I can guarantee that,” Chris guaranteed.

Way way later on in the story, we did finally get to hear the price of the Kirby Vacuum cleaner.  But I’m not sure anybody has the time to wait so I’ll just tell you now. It was $1500.  But there appeared to be some wiggle room there.  Or maybe those were friend prices.  I don’t recall.

So of course neither Brian nor I had any interest in any vacuum cleaner of any kind.  We were just having fun pretending to take an interest.  That’s when Brian said, “I thought the best vacuum cleaners were made by Hoover.”

Chris almost choked and did a spit take or whatever.  “Hoover!  Are you kidding me?  Those things suck more than any vacuum cleaner ever made in the entire history of vacuum cleaner making!”

Brian was extremely satisfied with this response.  The spider had the fly.  And with a lame old joke too.  And while the spider carefully navigated the web to bind the fly, it continued to try to sell the spider a vacuum cleaner, because all analogies break down at some level.

“Are you going to sit here and tell me that Kirby’s don’t suck?”  Brian asked in all seriousness.

“Kirby is the only vacuum cleaner ever made that does not suck,” replied Chris.  Oblivious.

My turn, “You know, we have an old Kirby at Wendy’s.  I have to use it when I’m on dining room.  I hate that heavy old thing.  And oh yeah, it sucks pretty hard.  Of course we only use it after close.  During the day we just pull out the Bissell.  I'll tell you what.  That Bissell may be small and light, but it definitely doesn't suck. ”

At this point, Brian and I suddenly begin to panic.  I might have gone too far on that one.  The trick is to be as obvious as possible without letting the fly know what’s happening.  Whoever gives the joke away loses. 

“Listen Frank,” Chris says, “I don’t know anything about your Kirby at work, but it probably just needs a little maintenance – and with this price, the maintenance is free for life!”

Unbelievable.  That went completely by him.  “No, it’s kept maintained.  In fact, this lady who’s worked there since the place opened said the vacuum cleaner sucks as much now as it did when it was new.”

Shit.  I screwed that wording up.  Surely he’ll catch that one.

“Oh, I see what you guys are doing.  Very funny.  Hardy har har,” I lose.  I got too cocky, I guess.

Ok here’s what’s going on.  I’ve been busy the last couple of days and have nothing to say.  Around here, when you’ve got nothing to say, you talk about the weather.  But I hate talking about the weather.  Especially right now because the weather sucks so bad.  We all know it sucks so why talk about it?  That’s why I chose to talk about the Kirby vacuum cleaner.  

I am not a Kirby vacuum cleaner salesman.  There is no such thing.  I am more of a delivery driver.  The Kirby sells itself.  I merely stand there and humbly collect the paltry $2000 from the people who insist on throwing money at me for knocking on their door to let them know that their future is standing majestically on the porch.  Its brilliant chrome base and handmade bluish plaid bag quietly waiting to take its place in your home.  And your heart.  Call me for an appointment.

Cats, Cradles and Shit.

So my Dad walked into a bar one time.  He walks up to the bartender, see, and the bartender, he says, “What’ll ya have, mister”.  So my dad, right?  He says to the bartender, “Got any grapes?”

Now this is where things get weird because my dad was just referencing an old joke he’d once heard.  He didn’t really want any grapes.  He was going to get around to ordering a beer in a minute.  He wasn’t going to order a “Movie beer.”   He was going to order a “Miller High Life.”  His beer of choice.  It was after all, “The Champagne of Beers.”  A movie beer is just known as “a beer”.  If you’re in a movie, and you say “Just give me a beer,” the bartender will set a glass of beer in front of you.  Movie bartenders are good that way.  They don’t need to know a specific brand. 

Anyway, what my dad couldn’t possibly have known was that the old joke he heard about the duck, the bartender and the grapes - Well, it was based on a true story.  It wasn’t an actual Duck, it was an employee of the Disneyworld Amusement Park.  The Bartender had run a little place outside of Orlando for many years.  It was a favorite hangout of most of the Characters from Disneyworld.  A place they could blow off a little steam. 

The actual story had started when Donald Duck (Dave) was giving Mickey Mouse (Peter) a bunch of crap about drinking his girly wine all the time.  The Duck wanted The Mouse to either drink a manly liquor drink, or in the very least, switch over to beer.

The Duck told The Mouse it was embarrassing when they were playing pool to see the long stem glass resting on the edge of the table.  Mickey countered with the fact that in Duck Costume, the way Dave’s tail feathers pointed up while he was taking a shot was far more ridiculous looking than a glass of wine. 

Finally, the Duck offered to make some wine for the mouse since he loved it so damn much.  “I mean, look at these huge webbed feet.  This’ll be the best effin’ wine you’ve ever had, Peter.  Hang on, let me see if the Bartender has any grapes …”

At that moment, they all had a good laugh and everything was alright between all the Disneyworld employees.  It was this camaraderie that helped propel Disneyworld to the world class amusement park status it now enjoys.

In fact, it became a running joke at the bar in Orlando.  Every night, the crew would walk in and play out the same old tired joke on the bartender.  Every night the off the clock Disney characters would laugh and laugh at the exasperated bartender.

Then came the threats.  Well, let me back up.  See, the bartender, Joey, had a little bit of a problem with his temper.  He always had.  He would have said about himself that he was really a fun-loving, happy-go-lucky kind of a guy.  He believed his true nature was one of tolerance and acceptance.  He figured the reason he had such a short fuse had less to do with some innate flaw and more to do with his upbringing. 

Once, when he was about 7 years old, Joey had heard his dad say that he was sick of the shabby old house they all lived in.  He said that everything in his life was so joyless and dull.  Even though the boy was routinely ignored by his father, Joey thought the world of his dad.  Dad was his hero.  The greatest man in the world. 

In reality, the father was only concerned with his own needs/desires.  He’d work his 40 or 50 hours and felt that was enough.  He didn’t need to spend time with his kid.  In his mind, providing financially was where his responsibility ended.    The boy longed to please his dad.  To be noticed by his dad.  To play “catch” with his dad, but it would never happen.  His dad, who had worked hard all day, had nothing left for his son once he got home.  If he ever did anything, it was go to the bar or the game or the track.  But never with little Joey.  Sniff.

That never stopped Joey from wanting to please the old man.  So one Saturday, while his father was “out with the fellas,” Joey decided to do something for his father.  Actually, he had planned this out for weeks.  He had saved enough money to do the greatest thing in the world. Now he had all he needed for the big surprise.  He could hardly sleep the night before.  Joey understood that his father’s dream of living in a nice new colorful place would not be realized anytime soon, if ever.  But Joey could at least add some color right here and now.  He had gone to an art store and bought some of the brightest tubes of paint he could find.

While he was hurriedly squeezing the last of the hot pink tube onto the dining room wall, he was experiencing his greatest joy in all of his 7 years.  This was a completely new feeling to him.  He had never committed an act of complete altruism, so the sensation was overwhelming.  Dad will be so happy with the new color in his life …

Wailing and beaten, a few minutes later in his room, Joey came to a conclusion that would alter the course of his life dramatically.  Faced at the young age with the realization of how such feelings of joy can, if ill-received, immediately turn to soul crushing pain.  He reasoned that it was better to never risk the pain.  He would never do anything for anyone ever again.

Down in the living room, Joey's father sat shaking his head at the mess his son had made of the already crummy house.  What had his son told him through the tears?  He was doing it for his dad?  He wanted to make him happy?  Then he looked at the destroyed walls and saw them from the point of view of a 7 year old.  It was now dad’s turn to cry.  The defeat he had learned at a young age came rushing back to him.  His own desire to please his father, and on it went …

As Joey’s father walked into Joey’s room, he detected the slight recoil of his little boy, afraid there would be more yelling.  But then Joey looked at his father and saw for the first time, a man.  Not a superhero.  A man who was hurt.  His father was crying.  “Son.  I understand what you did and why.   I am a fool to have not seen it.  You are a wonderful son and I am so proud of you.  Proud and sorry I couldn’t see it at first.  Thank you for what you did for me.  But yeah – we still have to clean it up.”

Joey was relieved by his father’s admission, but he was sticking by his earlier vow.  He would never again set himself up for that kind of pain.  He and his father embraced for the last time Joey could remember.  Joey’s world was now different.  With the revelation that his father was fallible, Joey was more frightened than ever before.

Yeah - As a matter of fact I do have some grapes - reaching under the counter, Joey sat a bowl of grapes in front of my dad.  My dad, though surprised, didn't want any grapes.  He continued with his joke, "You expecting a duck or something?"

At this, Joey turned white as a ghost and stepped backwards, slamming into the liquor bottles on the shelves behind him.  He could feel a cold sweat forming under his shirt, "How do you ..."

See, Joey didn't realize that a joke had been made of his time in Orlando, and certainly that it was such a popular joke that it had traveled farther away from Orlando than he had.  He had become so distraught over the situation at his place in Orlando, he had left everything, including his wife and young son, behind.  He wanted to start over somewhere new where nobody knew him.  He always said he left Florida so he no longer had to suffer from the Sour grapes his father had eaten.

"Who are you?" Joey asked my dad, still confused.

My dad answered, "What do you mean?  Just get me a Miller High Life please."

"I thought you wanted grapes," Joey said to my dad, pointing at the bowl on the bar.

"Oh yeah, thanks," said my dad, grabbing a handful and shoving them in his mouth.  After a couple of chews, he spit the grapes violently from his mouth.  There was something wrong.  He was getting dizzy.  His friends didn't know it, but Joey had poisoned the grapes.  They laughed hysterically at my dad as he stumbled out the door into the light.

My dad lived, but he never completely recovered from that incident.  I believe that's why my teeth are set on edge.

Hang on.  Abe wants to show me some art work he's created in the toy room ...

Madison, My Aim is True

When I was about 19 or 20, I spent a January in Madison Wisconsin.  I was going to be a comedian and my friend Jeff, who was going to the University, said I should go up there and do some comedy.  They had lots of comedy clubs and plenty of fun open mike nights I could go to and learn how to be funny.

I didn’t do much in the way of comedy while I was up there, but I learned a few important things about myself that I could take with me the rest of my life. 

One.   I was pretty good at darts.  I had no idea. 

Two.  Quarters.  I had a knack for quarters.  I won several quarters championships in Madison.  Strangely I could not really bounce the quarter into the glass that well.  I could drink a lot of light beer though.

Three.  I don’t really enjoy standing up in front of people trying to make them laugh.  I suppose if I went through the pain and trouble it would take to perfect the act, there might be some rewarding prize at the end.  But no.  When I started learning about computer programming, I found it way more interesting.  I like to solve puzzles.  I always have.  Writing code is often similar to solving logic puzzles.  At that time, around 1984 or so, Stand-up comedy was basically making observations about how dogs and cats differ. 

Here’s a transcript from my third performance in Madison, at the club called “The Four C’s” or “4 Seasons” or “for Seas.”  I was never sure:

“Hey ladies and germs, I just flew in from Omaha and boy, are my arms tired from carrying my luggage from baggage claim to the taxi.      So did you ever notice that dogs and cats are different?  What the fuck!”  (My act was pretty edgy) “Yeah, ok.  Anyone here from out of town?  Oh I guess the flashlight operator is from out of town.  No?  Oh yeah, the flashlight.  Well you folks have been great.  I’m going to go pursue a career in Computer programming now.” (Huge laugh).  “Goodnight everybody. Tip your servers and shit.”  (edgy)

So that wasn’t very fun.  My friend Jeff was a painfully honest critic with incredible instinct.  He gave me notes with each performance and the thing got somewhat better.  But still, it wasn’t really that fun for me.  I would usually slam 3 shots of tequila before going on the stage just to make the fear go away.  It worked.  I was never really nervous up there.  But I sensed there could be a problem with my method if I had any level of success.

Incidentally, when I went to college years later in pursuit of a degree in Computer Science, I had to take a speech class.  I was terrified.  I would not eat the night before a speech because my stomach was all knotted up with nerves.  I couldn’t eat until after the speech was over.  If I’d have thought back to the “comedy” days, I would have just taken some alcohol and been right as rain.  Cuervo Rain.

Hey – that reminds me.  Last spring I was on a little bike ride with Shim and Leah and PB (Patrick).  We were going up a hill and he (PB) was suffering.  He said “I’m in a spot of bother.”  I don’t know if I’ll ever come back from hearing that coming from a mouth that’s not Phil Leggett’s.  Hey – that reminds me.  Does anyone else think Phil Leggett sounds exactly like Eric Idle?  Me too.

Ok so yeah, Madison WI.  On the campus, where I was not a student, was The Student Center.  We had one of those at UNO too.  But this one served beer.  Well, if you were a student.  And you were 21.  Or you borrowed a Student I.D. from someone who had roughly the same color of hair as you and was 21.

So anyway, I borrowed James’ (one of Jeff's roommates)  I.D. and headed up to the Student center with my little notebook full of jokes, “Dogs and Cats Vol. IV”.  I figured I’d get a beer and try to notice funny things to tell people later. “The Student Center.  Am I right?”

While I was sitting there, I was absentmindedly watching these guys play darts.  I didn’t understand the game they were playing, but I knew I could throw darts way more accurately than they were.  They’d throw at some seemingly random spot on the board and then mark lines, x’s or o’s on the chalkboard.  Sometimes they’d write numbers next to these symbols.  Some sort of score or something.  I was completely stumped.

But you thought you could throw better than these guys?

I knew I could.  All through High school, I did not do my homework.  Until the second semester of my senior year, I did nothing.  I just turned in as little as possible, took the tests and failed a bunch of classes.  With my grades as low as they were, I was sent to my room every night to study.  I was really not allowed to leave my room until all of my homework was finished.  Which never happened.

So I’d spend about 2 or 3 hours every night throwing darts at the board in my room.  Every once in a while, I missed the board.  My dad would hear it and yell at me to stop playing darts and get to my homework.  So lesson learned.  Don’t miss the board.  I didn’t know any games.  I would just try to hit certain spots on the board.  I had seen the occasional world championship highlights on tv, and knew that those guys were better than me.

But I was better than these guys.  They had their own darts.  I mean – expensive darts.  I had darts at home too.  The same red and yellow darts that came with the board.  The flight and shaft was all one plastic piece.  These guys had fancy shiny narrow metal darts with aluminum shafts and some sort of thin plastic flights.  Very pro.

So I walked up and asked if they could explain the game to me.  Turns out, they were playing “Cricket”

After they explained it to me, I said I didn’t understand, but I thought I could hit the board pretty well if they could tell me what part to hit.  Well they thought this was pretty funny so I wrote it down in my notebook just in case.  There were 3 of them playing and they needed another guy to make teams, so the “best” said I should join them and I could be on his team since he was better than the other 2.  Oh yeah – and the losers bought the next round of beers.  I had just spent my last 2 bucks on my beer, so I said, “That works.”

Six games later (and a teammate switch) I had three empty pints and three full pints at the table.  Also, I understood how to play cricket.  Somebody suggested we play 301. I knew how to play 301.  It was in the instructions that came with the board I owned.  I verified that it was double-in/double-out and almost got my skinny little ass kicked.  They were all like, “I knew this guy was some kind of hustler.”  And I’m all, “Woah there.  301 was in the instructions to my dart board.  Cricket wasn’t.”  Big laughs all around.  More writing in the notebook.

Well, after that, I went up there every day to play darts with whoever was there.  That is where I developed my incredible tolerance for light beer and cultivated my skill at outlasting many opponents in a game of quarters.  I really had a difficult time getting the coin to drop into the glass.  But I was very thirsty, so.

After a particular quarters victory one night, I was walking the 14 blocks back to the house where I was staying.  I was very drunk.  I started to get really hot and sweaty.  I unbuttoned my coat.  Not enough.  I took my coat off and removed my sweatshirt.  Nope.  Still too warm.  I took my shirt off and put my coat back on, leaving it unbuttoned.  Perfect.  Feel the cool refreshing breeze blowing the sweat from my brow.  Mmm.  Oh yeah.  It was 27 below zero (Fahrenheit) in Madison WI that night.  When I woke up the next day and remembered that I had briefly considered laying down on the nice cool ground for a while to get some rest, I knew it was time to leave comedy, darts, beer and Wisconsin.  Except for the beer.  Well, and the darts.  

Never mind.  I didn’t learn anything.

When I got back to Omaha and did some comedy, I met Shim’s friend.  I don’t know if Shim’s friend was Pat Hazell or Craig Anton.  But I met them both, so.

The important thing is I mentioned Shim.  Sometimes I forget to do that.

Learning how to eat

It takes me a long time to learn anything.  I think I’ve always been this way.  It’s part of the overanalysis, I guess.

I am a natural at nothing (except golf.  It is what I was born to do, but that ship has sailed).

When I was 16, I started working at Wendy’s.  The first thing they taught me was the grill.  I think they wanted me to master the grill before I moved on to anything else.  I was on the grill for a long time.  Roughly 3 or 4 times longer than anyone else before I really caught on. 

But then after that really steep learning curve, it turns out I was the best damn grillman they ever had.  Not that that means anything.  I was literally flipping burgers.  But damn, I was good at it.

Say that reminds me. I used to take a slice of cheese and set it on the wooden counter we leaned on as we worked the grill.  I’d take the spatula and while I was singing “Dun, da-dun, da du-na-na …” (the MTV theme song) I’d cut 2 narrow triangular slivers from the bottom of the cheese slice and one wide triangle from the top to make the cheese look like a big “M”.  Then I’d use the 2 pieces from the bottom (still singing the MTV song) to make the little “T” and the wide triangle from the top for the “V”.

The sandwich girls swooned.

Anyway, I think part of my problem learning from people is that I tend to take them literally.  When I hear words, I first consider the literal meaning of them.  If that doesn’t make sense, I evaluate the environment and try to get the true meaning of the words.  Since I usually guess wrong, if I can’t make any sense at all out of what I’ve heard, I’ll repeat the words, emphasizing the part that has me confused.  Turns out, that sort of thing is universally received as being a “smart-ass”.  Usually, I just roll with it, because as the wise man once said (actually, it was a sandwich girl.  Another time.), “It’s better than being a dumbass.” 

And if the person calling me a smartass really saw that I honestly did not understand the sentence, he would most certainly consider me a dumbass. 

Oh that reminds me.  One time, I was in a mostly empty warehouse.  In the middle of the room was a card table.  Next to the card table was another card table with a boom box and a stack of cds of rock and roll music from the 80s and 90s.   Around the first card table were about 6 or 7 chairs.  I was in one of the chairs.  My friend Todd (A.K.A. Mike) was in another.  I didn’t know the rest of the guys.  Two of them were these gay guys that lived across the street from Mike.  They were amazing to me because they were these totally flaming heavy metal rocker types.  One of them had on a Megadeth t-shirt and a thick leather biker’s jacket.  He was fat and didn’t look very clean.  His boyfriend was just this loser gamer guy.  Totally changed my view of heavy metal rocker guys. I mean, Judas Priest!

Maybe it was because these guys lived in LaVista that they didn’t feel the need to conform to “Big City Gay” behavior.  I don’t know.  I just found it fascinating. 

Also at the warehouse that night was Chris.  He is my friend Mike’s BFF.  He’s a pretty funny guy.

 

Then there was this one guy.  I don’t remember where he was from, but he might have been a friend or relative of Mike’s ex-wife.  He’s the one I just thought of up there when I typed the word “dumbass”

We were all there to play poker.  One of the things that I’ve spent way too much time thinking about is poker.  It took me a long time to learn, but now I’m so good at it, that nobody better ever play cards with me because I will win all of your money.  Why do you think they call me “Fredcube” anyway?

Ok so, we’re all sitting there playing some poker, having a good time, when Dumbass points at me.  He says, “You’re a whisky drinker, aren’t you?”  But because of the way he kind of sloshed his words around it sounds more like “… wish-key”

I was confused.  I hadn’t seen this move in poker for a long time, and I knew this kid didn’t know it, so I decided against my better judgment to take him literally.  “No, not really, I …”

“You can’t kid me.  I know a wish-key drinker when I shee one,”  Nudging my buddy Mike with his elbow, Einstein asks, “Hey Mikey, you know thish guy.  Ish he a big whish-key drinker?”

Mike just kind of covers his mouth with his cards, suppressing his laughter.  Ahh that’s why this guy was invited.  For the immense entertainment value he brings to the table.  Now I’m trying to keep a straight face (particularly with the gay rockers across the table).

So he continued, “It’sh your nose gave you away.  Your nose ish all red.  That’sh a wish-key drinker if I ever shaw one.  That’sh how you can tell if shomeone drinksh wish-key.”

Now I have had whisky before.  I don’t really care for it.  I like beer.  As a matter of fact, I was sitting there at this warehouse card table tossing back a few beers.  I was not drinking whisky. 

In response to dumbass, I kind of pursed my lips, raised my eyebrows, lowered my chin and glanced over at my buddy Mike.  His jerking shoulders betraying his suppressed giggling.   I looked back at dumbass and shrugged.  “I knew it!”  He shouted triumphantly, “I can always tell.  Raise.”

I’m not sure what was so important to him about whisky drinkers.  Actually, that’s not quite true.  It wasn’t about whisky drinkers.  He was testing a theory of his built from “knowing someone who drank whisky who had a red nose.”

Oh yeah – and I was sunburned, so I called his bluff.

But anyway – it takes me a long time to learn stuff.

Recently, I’ve been learning to eat.  I know a lot about what I’m supposed to eat.  I’ve heard over and over again about the recovery window and the importance of hydration and how terrible it is to bonk and so on and so forth.  Yawn. 

Up until say, 3 or 4 weeks ago, I considered eating “whatever the hell I damn well pleased whenever the hell I damn well wanted,” one of the many perks of 10-15 hours of intense training a week on the bike.  It is true that if I workout hard and regularly, I can eat whatever I want and I won’t gain weight.  Unfortunately, that becomes about the only benefit.  Performance on the bike is severely limited.  I say this having only learned it, um, yesterday.

About 7 years ago, I was training pretty regularly.  I was eating whatever the hell I wanted.  I was working at the U.P.  My weight was a little high but I figured I’d drop those pounds with more bike hours.  

Every morning I would go to the U.P. Cafeteria and get one of their super-duper deluxe omelettes with every damn thing they could fit on it.  One morning I was standing at the register when Shim walked by and saw the plate, “That’s not on your diet plan,” he said.

“Yes it is,” I countered for no particular reason, other than I didn’t have a diet plan.  That’s when Shim paused to take a closer look at what I was eating.  He said, “Well maybe so, but not with all that cheese,” and he walked away.

That was when I first actually looked at the pool of yellow grease covering the eggs and veggies.  Wow.  It just took a little comment.  Of course it was a ridiculous amount of cheese.  That’s where the delicious comes from.

Then about 7 years later (slow learner) I was on a Saturday group ride.  We’d gone to Arlington and were stopped at a gas station.  Brady held up his full water bottle with the realization that he had yet to drink anything on the ride.  “Uh-oh,” he said.  What, I wondered, was the problem.  I hadn’t had any water either.  Is that somehow important?  Don’t get me wrong.  I normally drink water on rides.  But this was a cold ride and you don’t feel thirsty very often.  But if elite Brady thinks he should have, he’s probably right.  I decided to investigate this “hydration” thing another time.

A couple of weeks after that, Brady wrote about bonking on that very ride.  I rode that ride home alone, but had a much more difficult time than I normally would have for such a short ride.

Thinking about it, the only time I drink water is on the bike.  Otherwise I drink coffee, soda, or beer.

Maybe it’s time to change that.  I went and got a water bottle to drink from at my desk.  Now I go through 3 or 4 of those a day since it’s just sitting there.  The first week or so, I had to pee about every 15 minutes or so, but now, somehow, even though I still drink as much water, I pee a lot less.  So that’s some information for you to visualize.  You’re welcome.  Usually, I place my right hand on the wall above the urinal*.  Just sayin’.

There are other things I’m doing diet-wise that are more out of aversion than knowing better.  Normally, I take my lunch to work.  This is a good way to get a quality meal.  I usually don’t take my lunch on Fridays.  I like to take a day off each week.  Also, I like to go to lunch with the co-workers once a week.  But two Fridays ago, I was meeting the U.P. gang after work for a group ride.  I still didn’t take my lunch, but when the co-workers said they were going to Pepper Jax (which I love), I honestly couldn’t stomach the idea of eating all of that grease and then trying to go for a potentially spirited ride a few hours later.  See, I’m learning.  Oh, so slowly.

My newest thing is taking the “recovery window” seriously.  For my weight, that means almost 700 calories (Kcal) in carbs within 30 minutes of the end of a long hard ride.  We’ll see how that goes, but I’ve been doing this for 2 weeks now and I feel like I have more strength and energy for longer and more often.  That could just be placebo effect though.  I still haven’t dropped Savery enough times to be sure my new methods are foolproof.

*I’m sinister.

WNFW

From some of the bike related books I've read, I've learned there's a thing the French say about a rider who is going very well.  Too well.  They say he is supernatural.  I guess this implies the suspicion that he is necessarily doping.

I think it is possible to just have a good day.  A day where for reasons you don't understand, you ride way better than you normally could.  Writing these ill-planned little blog posts is much like that.  Last week, I blogged about a Wednesday ride.  Thanks to Rafal for linking it on Facebook and Bryan for linking it to Gamjams-midwest, the number of visitors went from roughly about 15 during the week, to well over 100.

I heard a lot of positive feedback from the post, which is nice.  I never know when I write these things if they make any sense.  I'm pretty sure there are less than 5 of them in the history of me posting that I'm really proud of.  So this one (below) will most likely be typical of what I spill out here on a weekly basis and nowhere near as fun to read as last week's.  All is not lost, though.  For your tear-jerking, reading pleasure, I'm going to link my all time favorite post.  It's the one about the pain of raising my daughter as a divorced person (me divorced - not my daughter).  Read that one if you haven't already (It's here).  Then when you get done crying and if you feel like it, read this one.  It won't be as good, but I'll make fun of at least one person.  I will be using a device known as "sarcasm, irony's evil twin."   I won't tell you when the sarcasm is happening.  I will leave that as an exercise for the reader.

So by way of no further introduction, here's tonight's entry:

It has been pointed out to me that some people are not fond of the Trek Store’s, Wednesday night ride’s, nickname’s, TLA.

The Trek Store’s, Wednesday night ride’s, nickname is “Wednesday Night Worlds” and its TLA (3 letter acronym) is WNW.

Since my driving motivation for anything I do is to appease (not please) people in hopes that they will just shut their mouths for another sweet moment, I will henceforth no longer refer to the ride as “WNW”

You’re welcome Shim and Barry.

I am going to now call it WNFW.

I can guess what you’re thinking and you’re right.  It stands for “Wednesday Night's Furry Wall”

I’m pretty sure it is completely clear why, but I have nothing better to do so I’ll explain.

I went on the WNFW ride last night (Wednesday).  There were about a dozen or so people there.  I don’t know all of their names, but the ones I do know or learned were called: Kyle, Shim, Spence, Jordan, Noah, John (Lehman) of back-to-back cat V victory last weekend, Rafal, Mod, Jonathan Wait (I only know this because of Strava) and others.

First of all, I want to get something out of the way. Shim was looking for an awesome lead-out from me toward the end of the ride ( I think he was joking).  I was done at that point and was unable to contribute.  Sorry about that Shim.  I am currently going over the numbers, looking at the pie charts and even throwing together some venn diagrams in the hope of remedying the issue by next week.  So far, my research is pointing to the potential need for everyone to not be in such a big hurry up the hill.  But I’ll get back to you when the lab results return and either confirm or verify my suspicion.  Again, you’re welcome.

One more thing needs to be mentioned before I return to the good natured ribbing stuff.  It is important.  If you take nothing else away from this post, I want you to hear what I’m about to say.  It is a matter of safety.  We travel at fairly high speeds sometimes and there can often be some confusion which I could see potentially leading to tragic results.  Because of that, I have a request.  Ignore me if you want, but do so at your own peril.

The rider I met last night who is called Kyle was wearing what can only be described as the YKSA.  If you know your Velominati lexicon, you know what the "Yellow Jacket of Authority", or YJA is.  Well – I learned last night that they ALSO make those in knee sock/shoe cover things.  Oh my gosh.  They were the same neon green as those safety jackets, but they went from toe to over the calf! 

For safety reasons, everyone must get a pair of those knee socks right now.  End of discussion.  Ok I lied.  I am going to tell you after all.  That was the sarcastic part.  Do not really go get socks like that.  Please.

Back Up!  Get my matching socks in the shot!

Ok so now.  The ride.  I don’t want to just detail what happened since I did that last week.  I noticed some weird thoughts in my head during last night’s ride.  I thought I’d share those.  They may be important.

Because we were trying to beat the night (remember, only Kyle had the socks), we took the same relatively short route as last week. This ride is supposed to be hard.  That's the point.  Apart from an actual race, this is about as hard as you will ever go.  Sometimes, particularly early in the season, a hard ride like this causes a sort of out-of-body experience.  Which is good.  Because there's nothing but a whole lot of pain going on in the body.

So last night after about 15 minutes into the hard riding, I become aware that there's been a single song stuck in my head from the time it first started getting tough.  I wonder why it is this particular song, but am at a loss.  The song doesn't leave my head until we finally ease up once we're back in town in North Omaha.  Of course I'm talking about Infant Sorrow's smash hit "Furry Walls" from the movie "Get Him to the Greek."

We were riding pretty hard, doing the double paceline thing, but since there was a whole bunch of guys there, it was a little crazier.  Because of the wind configuration, the right line was moving forward and the left line was about 3 feet from the right edge of the road.  It was a little scary for me because I don’t have a lot of experience in that sort of close proximity riding.  I pulled through for a while, then got tired and so just sat in on the back, trying not to lose the group.

I was sitting in pretty good, just thinking over and over again, “Furry walls, don’t bring me down.  Furry walls please stay around …”

I’m gritting my teeth and laughing at the same time.  I want to ask around if anyone there knows the movie or the song, but I can’t think of how to form the question with one quick exhale.  Also, someone might have said something like, “Maybe – tell me about it …”  So I decided to just keep my mouth shut (figuratively) and stick to breathing.  The Furry Walls story could wait until after the WNFW ride.

Then something I still don't understand happened at the front.  There was an acceleration.  Ok, fine.  Protected by the group I was able to stay on. Except that whenever I got to where I thought I was supposed to be, they were farther up the road.  This acceleration stopped for me at around 33 MPH.  Then I let them go.  Looking up, I saw a couple others get dropped.  No matter.  We were about a mile from Ft Calhoun.  I almost guttered Rafal at one point, unaware he was sitting to my right and slightly behind me.  My fault, but he kept a cool head.  I felt bad but then I had this in my head, “When the World slips you a Jeffrey, stroke the furry wall.  Stroke the furry wall.”  Really.  I did.

Thinking about that stupid song today, I think it was because in the movie, a Jeffrey is this narcotic they all smoke at this club.  It makes everyone feel really uneasy.  Panicky.  Sweaty.  Short of breath.  I felt like the Wednesday Night Worlds slipped me a Jeffrey.

After we were through Ft Calhoun, I found myself in a very good mood.  I could tell I was exhausted and would have trouble with the last climb, but I didn't care.  I was welcoming the hard work.  It was there that I learned that the deadly combo of Mark Savery and Shim was the reason for all that ungodly speed at the front earlier.  My reaction surprised me.  I was genuinely impressed and not at all bummed out my not being able to hang.  I now realized that I was being comforted by the furry walls.

Finally we got to the last climb of the evening.  At this point we'd been going pretty hard with the wind and I had one of those out of body experiences.  I suddenly looked down and saw a bunch of ridiculous adult men pedaling bicycles really fast on a cold and windy night, just because.  I lost all understanding of why anyone would do this.  I thought of the sweetness of the golf club and how glorious golfing is.  The pain of cycling is stupid.

Nice try, golf demons.  Luckily a few seconds later, the current residents of my soul, the hordes of cycling demons woke up to do furious battle, beating back the golf threat yet again.

As I blissfully let the group of riders climb the hill while I rode within myself, Aldous Snow was crooning,  “Maybe I'm in heaven with the furry skies above, All around are furry clouds, look, here's a furry dove …”
This is absolutely true, by the way.  I laughed my ass up the hill considering what a furry dove is.

After the downhill, down the road about a half mile ahead, I could barely make out a bright green spinning motion.  I knew what that meant.  Time to bridge.

I was able to get a good tailwind spin going and hold about 25-26 miles per hour.  I couldn't be sure, but the bright green spinny beacon off in the distance seemed to be getting closer, "Furry walls, furry walls, furry walls ..."

Eventually I latched on to Kyle's wheel.  Rafal was with him, but I hadn't known that because Rafal didn't have on the YKSA.

They were cruising at around 23, so after my little rest I went around to pull.  Back up to 25 and up the little rise by the water treatment place.  I looked back to let the other 2 know they could come around any time, and saw green socks had fallen off.  Rafal informed me he was still there, then gave me a pat on the back as he went around.  He told me - and I agree - we'll be riding together a lot this year.  Finally, Brady's dream that group riders do some sort of buddy system will be realized!  I hope Feagan doesn't get too jealous.

For me the best part of the ride was knowing I went as hard as I could and felt pretty good at the end of it.  In years past, I would mope around for days at having been dropped.  I truly didn't care this time.  Shit happens.  So what?  It might be part of the HTFU philosophy taking hold.  Or it might be the comfort I find in a good furry wall.  Either way, I'm cool with it.

So if you're ever riding with me and happen to wonder what's going through my mind, here you go.

Actually it's more like this.

The Relevant scene

Ride. Lots. – Eddy Merckx

Note:  I was going to write about my 5 favorite flavors of Bundt Cake*, but that will have to wait.  Last night, I was invited on a training ride.  At the end of it, Rafal requested that I blog about the experience on the condition that I overanalyze the shit out of it.  Since I know no other way, I’m happy to oblige. 

Background on this year’s training strategy

In the past I’ve tried all sorts of training regimens.  This year, I decided they were generally too complicated for me to follow through on.  I decided to go with Eddy Merckx’ famous training advice:  Ride.  Lots.

Not to say that there is anything wrong with structured training.  I believe if you want to reach your absolute best, there must be structure.  But I think if you want to simply hang in local group rides, “Ride.  Lots.”  is more than sufficient.

Race – Er, um  – training ride report

Last night (Wednesday) was the “2013 Wednesday Night Worlds Prologue - Route Scout Edition” (working title).  Shim – as director of the Trek Store Wednesday night rides is working on a slightly different route from the previous years.  The hope is to avoid the busy area of 72^nd and Jones.

This ride started at the Park Services building near the BK Bridge.  Rafal, Jordan, Shim and Leah were there, but Leah was pressed for time so she just rode with us to about Ponca and turned back.

Let Me Explain why I was happy to be invited at all

A few weeks ago, I noticed the Saturday group rides I’ve been attending had slowed down considerably.  Where I’d been hanging on for dear life for the entirety of the ride, now I could actually get out and contribute from time to time.  This has opened up a whole new area of learning for me.  Honestly, for as long as I’ve been riding, I have never been in a position to do anything other than wheel suck, so I’m relatively ignorant of the finer points of group riding.  Particularly when it comes to any of the myriad ways to paceline.

On a recent ride, I made some error in group ride etiquette (riding 3 abreast at the front).  I was completely oblivious.  That’s when a more experienced rider charged up to the front and told me to back off.  I am fine with that and willing to learn.  But then this rider, sitting at the front spent roughly 5 minutes complaining about people and their fucking egos putting everyone else in danger, disrupting the group dynamic or whatever.  And on and on it went as I sat right behind getting very very sad.  Like this à L. 

It wasn’t ego.  It was ignorance.  I’d never (or rarely) been up there before.  I just felt really good that day and was thinking I’d put in some time at the front since I’d been sitting in for months.  I was thinking I kind of owed the group for doing all the work all winter.  Maybe they’d be thankful.  Maybe they’d like me.  At least until the weather warms up and they see my hairy legs.

When the rider (who is my hero, by the way) started attributing motives (ego) to my actions, he wasn't talking about me anymore.  He knows what goes on in his head, not mine.  I understand that now, but at the time I was upset.  I had screwed up.  People (or person) were (or was) mad about it.  Would I be unwelcome in the group?  And just when I was starting to feel the form to contribute.   Damn.

Luckily for me, a careful rereading of the rules reminded me to “Harden the Fuck Up” and I instantly felt better.

I don’t pretend to know what the hell is going on up there in elite-local-group-ride-ville.  It would do no good to tell me, “Hey Cube, if it ever happens that you’re strong enough to hang with us, this is how it will go.”

But now that I’m back in shape, the next step is to learn.  I like learning.  I don’t dislike it.  Last night I got a good tip or two from the others that really helped the ride go smoothly. 

As we got to the first climb, Jordan got a good rhythm going and was immediately about 10 or fifteen yards (meters, or is it metres) in front of us.  I felt ok, so I figured I’d get up there and grab his wheel before it was too late.  Without too much effort, I was on.  This is where I intended to stay for as long as I could.  I certainly wasn’t going to be going around him.  This is an average grade of 4.5% for 7/10^th of a mile.  We were going 15 MPH already and it seemed steady enough. 

Then there was this loud whirring noise to my left.  Oh it was Shim flying by.  Then Rafal.  Well, that’s it.  I’m done.  As Jordan picked up his pace to grab Shim’s Wheel (Rafal was now in front) I realized something I really couldn’t believe.  We were basically pacelining up this hill.  And the speed was increasing!  And I was still there.   And I didn’t feel too bad.  In fact, I was feeling pretty damn froggy, so I accelerated to the front and we continued this hill climbing rotation thing all the way to the top.  Unbelievable.  A glance down at the computer showed we were going 17.6 MPH as we crested the hill.

To Redemske’s credit, we did have a bit of a tailwind (and the questionable working together thing) when Rafal and I together shattered his lame-ass KOM by an astounding 1 second.  Jordan was penalized by 2 seconds for starting the climb before everyone else (and for having a beard).  You know what?  Strava’s not perfect, but that’s what we find so damn cute about it.

So that was new.  Fit cyclists pull each other up hills.  Hmm.  Interesting.  I never knew that.

Overanalyzing what had just happened, I knew I wasn’t good enough to do what I’d just done (there goes that ego again) but I had.  Sometimes people say, “All you need is a little confidence in your ability.”  I guess that’s true.  But last night I noticed that my confidence had nothing to do with my ability.  I was willing to try (like always) but in the past, it always resulted in a tremendous explosion of nothingness, followed by a painful standing on stubborn, heavy pedals.

The next part of the ride that was at all interesting was an uphill to tiny little rollers on Northern Hills Drive from Hwy 75 to 72^nd street.  Here again, Jordan took off.  I knew better than to try to catch him at the pace he was going.  Shim followed and caught him.  Rafal and I traded pulls to keep them in sight so we could pretend like we were there all the time when we got to 72^nd street.  “Dropped” is probably too strong a word here.  Good times.

Section 3 was the Wednesday Night Worlds section called “Ft Calhoun sprint on Omaha Trace”.  We didn’t go anywhere near the insane pace I’ve seen in the past on WNWs, but we went along pretty well.  Here’s where I was gently given instruction on a couple of things to do differently in the pulling rotation thing. I was appreciative for the instruction and the fellas were sure to throw me a biscuit each time I didn’t fuck it up too bad.  So that was cool.

Blah blah blah, down the hill into Ft Calhoun, over by Boyer chute, yawn.  We’re still taking our turns.  I am getting the feeling Rafal is starting to get tired, but I can’t be sure.  I figure it’s somehow my fault (ego). 

Then I make an inadvertent mistake, but am quickly corrected.  See, we’re heading closer to that one hill, called “Over Boyer Chute” on Strava, and I’m anticipating our little paceline will break up at any moment, and it will be every man for himself.  I imagine that it (the working together) has ended and ease up.  At this, Rafal looks back because I’ve let a gap form between me and Shim.  Understanding my error, I speed up to get to the front and pull as I should.  Shim, upon sensing the speed up, shouts something like “Calm down you whipper snapper,” and I fall to the place I belong.  This is the first time I realize we are all going to work as a group up the hill.  I’m amazed.  Once it turns upward, my suspicion that Rafal is having an off day is confirmed.  Jordan, Shim and I go up the hill together. 

The second time the hill gets steep I find myself in front.  I don’t feel those two coming around, so I then remember a story Brady told me about Shim wanting a lead out up a hill from the year before at the Spring Classic “Tour De Husker”.  So I bury myself for a little while until Shim and Jordan zip by to the top.  I still would say “dropped” is a bit strong.  Besides, I prefer to be alone on the ensuing descent.  I always have before.  No reason to stop now.

We all regroup and see Joe Savoie ahead.  We try to chase him down, but it’s no use because he’s too much of a stud.  Or well, his tires are too studded, I guess.

*I will say that Blueberry has to be in any Bundt cake discussion.

You're Crazy

So the big challenge on Strava this month is the “Train like Tyler” challenge.  For 16 days, you have to put in a certain number of hours on the bike.  These have to be outdoors.  No trainer rides.  No manual entries.  Three days before the end of the challenge (3/17/2013) you have to fail a drug test and then you have the remaining time to convince Strava that the test is flawed.  The crazier the reason, the better chance you will have of winning.  You are not allowed to use any of Tyler Hamilton’s excuses (i.e.: I absorbed a twin in the womb who is with me to this day).

So pretty simple really.  Get out and ride.  Dope.  Get caught.  Deny.  Hang on a minute, someone is yelling at me.  What!?!  It’s What?  Who?  Oh – you mean Phinney?  Oh alright.

Sorry about that.  It’s actually called the “Train Like Tayler” Challenge.  It’s something about how some famous pioneering American cyclists had a baby and now he “rides bikes”.  He’s on Strava, sharing all of his training with the world.  The contest goes like this:

Hey Everybody!  Do you have what it takes to train like a pro!  Put in 2 hours a day for a couple of weeks and we’ll call it square.  How about them apples, you lucky sonofagun!  And to sweeten the pot, the company Taylor Phinney works for will throw in 5 pair o’ shoes.  That’s right!  Ride for 2 hours a day, for 16 days and you could get some shoes. 

This will be the second “challenge” from Strava that I’ve participated in.  So far it’s going pretty well.  All the people who finish 31 hours and 51 minutes between Mar 2 and Mar 17 2013 will be eligible for the drawing to win a pair of some ugly-ass black and orange GIRO cycling shoes.  There will be 5 winners.  I really would like to win, but with the whole Sears Bike fiasco from 41 years ago still fresh in my memory, I’m not getting my hopes up.

I didn’t even think I’d try to do this challenge at all since I’ve been getting about 9 hours in a week, including roller rides.  No way I can ramp to 14 a week.  Then I figured if I do my long commute thing (34 miles or so round trip), I could get just under 2 and a half hours a day in.  With the long Saturday rides, this could even leave me a day off.  I likes me a day off each week.  Yes I do.

As of this writing, I have 12 hours and 12 minutes (6 days into it), so I’m currently slightly ahead of schedule (even after taking Sunday off).  There was a ride Sunday.  I saw it on Strava.  But Hey, Shim and Rafal gotta get them some alone time once in a while.  I’d like to get a little bit more ahead of schedule if I could.  This way if something comes up, I have a little buffer and remain eligible for the ugly-ass shoes.  If there ends up being a Saturday ride this week, I should get even more hours than usual because I plan a good 2+ hour ride tomorrow and my legs are very tired this week.  I’ll be so rapidly spit out the back of Saturday’s ride that I might get an extra hour in!  Sweet!  Thanks Tyler or Taylor or whatever your name is.

Now I’m just rambling.  What was I talking about?  Oh yeah.  Strava Challenges.

The thing about the Strava challenges is they seem to have a point.  I think that if they don’t really go against whatever you’re doing for training, they are great motivators.  In January, the challenge was what they called a “Base Mile” challenge.  See how many miles you can get in the calendar month.  This was the first time they decided to allow manual input and trainer rides.  I spent a lot of time on the rollers in January.  After getting the manflu in the middle of it and missing a few days, I decided I couldn’t reasonably get to 1000 miles.  I set a new goal of 800 miles.  They were awarding “badges” for each 200 completed up to 1000.

Having never done one of these, I didn’t know that the real competition is to see who can get the most miles.   Some of these people put in ridiculous amounts.  The winner was just over 4000 miles for the month of January.  That can’t be a part of any training, can it? 

The funny thing is all the complainers and whingers.  One guy said as much and a bunch of others, seeing the “typo” jumped in his shit saying something like, “What’s a whinger, dude?  I think you mean whiner or you’re just stupid.”

So I did what that guy should have done.  I googled “Whinger.”

There are dozens of cries of foul throughout the whole competition.  There are people saying trainer rides shouldn’t count.  People saying they’d put in 100 miles a day if they lived in Australia. And on and on. 

But it is understandable that people get so worked up over what is and isn’t fair in this competition.  The grand prize is something worth fighting for. 

Prize Information

For successfully making it through this Challenge, each participant will receive the gift of fitness. 

Please note...

The Challenge starts and ends based on each riders local time zone.

Manual entries or trainer rides will count towards your Challenge effort.

All activities logged during the Challenge period must be uploaded to Strava no later than 2/3/2013.

There was also a link to the “Official rules” that opened a window that said:

“Ride hard and be safe.”

So the new challenge isn’t about miles.  It’s about hours.  There’s still all kinds of bitching (whinging) about this and that.  But still, I’m amazed by the amount of time some people put in on a bike.  The current leader has 58 hours.  6 days.  58 hours.  Uhh.

Now everyone who gets 31 H 51 M, is entered for the drawing for the black and orange shoes.  But these people are in it to be the person in the world on his bike for the longest amount of time.  So effing what?  I’ve done that in just about every race I’ve been in.

One more thing about Strava.  Lance is gone.  So sad.  Someone found out he was on Strava and then it was in the newspaper and then there were a bunch of articles about whether he should be allowed on Strava.  Personally, I have no idea why he shouldn’t be allowed to be on Strava.  He was a premium member too. 

One day I logged into Strava and wondered how many times I’d typed the non-word “Strava” lately and noticed that the number of people I was following was not 23, but 22.  That’s weird I thought.  Who is missing?  I haven’t stopped following anyone on purpose (this was before last Saturday’s group ride).

Then I tried to go to Lance Armstrong’s page and saw this:

So yeah, I was kind of bummed out about it.  That was some fine entertainment.  I don't expect Lance to ever return to Strava, so I found myself wishing there could be some sort of runner up on Strava.  Well, I didn't have to wait long, because sure enough, Yesterday, Der Kaiser Signed up!

I'm not really surprised that I saw Lance on there first and Jan on there second.  Something just seemed right about it.  Well, I might as well do a little GPS snooping on him now.

Ok so there's no obvious palace around where he started, but this is in Spain, so I don't know.  Maybe he's renting or something.

In conclusion, if your vagina needs a good soaking, why not try gin?

Mmm.  Sounds tasty.  Thanks E*TRADE® !!!

The End?