Looking Forward to Winter i.e. No Excuses, Part 1

It has never happened in the history of being me that I have been looking forward to winter. I have always hated winter.  I hate being inside.  I hate the feeling that I need to bundle up to go for a walk to avoid dying in the process.

I have always dreamed of moving some place with a better year round climate.  I've even considered places like Phoenix (which would be horrible).

Oh that reminds me - Hey - all you people in Phoenix who put up all these "Hey the weather's great here.  I sure feel sorry for my friends and family back home in Nebraska" comments in January.  Don't bother.  We know it's livable in Phoenix in January.  But 130 F is not worth a couple of months of marginally better weather.

Stupid Phoenix.  Hey Phoenix, Nebraska weather is better than Phoenix weather almost every day.  And when it's not, you suck.  Pussies.

Anyway, my dream place has always been somewhere like the Goldilocks climate in Northern California.  After that, there are a lot of places in Colorado I wouldn't mind living.  These places also have the benefit of some seriously nice mountain rides.  I would like to do hill training.  I think it would be good.

I can whine about the weather every year (really.  I can.  Ask anybody) I can gripe endlessly about how much fitness I'm forced to lose by not being able to ride 5 months out of the year -- or I can just HTFU and ride.

That's what I did last year.  I actually started riding in November.  Then I got up the courage to go out on the packed snow with my cross bike.  Piece of cake.  Sort of.

To say I'm looking forward to winter isn't exactly true.   It's just that every winter of my life so far, I have dreaded the thought so much, it spoiled much of my Autumn.  That's just wrong.  

The truth is I'm not even considering winter.  I'm not dreading it.  The most accurate thing to say is,  I'm not thinking about it because it has little relevance.   It's not going to get in the way too much.

At work the last couple of weeks as the weather has cooled, people see me coming in from the bike commute and say friendly things like, "Not much longer, eh?" meaning my commute by bike days are coming to an end.  Usually, I just stare at them with what I imagine comes across as a look of perplexity.  I'm doing this to try to be an asshole.  To try to convey the message, "Whatever do you mean good sir or madam?"

But they probably think I am not answering because my face is frozen stiff (they can't see the healthy dollop of mutton fat smeared on my skin to protect and moisturize).

Once I get done with my "I'm perplexed" stare and get no reaction, I usually just bare my teeth and growl at them, like I imagine a true Mongolian would.  Those guys could really handle the cold well.  Seriously.

Honestly though, there may be times when I am forced to do indoor roller sessions.  They suck, but I can do that.  It's just an hour long.

But as long as the streets are relatively clear, there isn't a temperature that happens here that is too cold for a 90 minute ride.  I have the gear.  I've learned a little about riding in the snow.  It's not that big a deal.

This Spring came late and Summer was short and here we are in the middle of cross season.  A few people have talked about their plans and expectations for next year's racing.  This would normally be the time when I'd pretend to be committing to some sort of goal next year.  Much like the fact that it doesn't bother me that Winter is coming,  I don't care anymore about what claims I might make about the future.  I've shown far too many times that they are meaningless.

So maybe I'll see you at the races next year.  Or maybe not.  But either way.  Suck it.  Especially  you people in Phoenix.  Suck it in your stupid desert.


~~

Full disclosure. I just got a really nifty new balaclava and nice warm pair of merino wool socks in the mail today.  I wore them the whole time I wrote this, so I'm a bit toasty right now and wouldn't mind a slight temperature drop.  Oh yeah - and Phoenix? You know what to do.

Monday Extra: Time to Make a Change

Well it's been a fantastic 5.5 years here at the company, but I need to consider new opportunities.  The following text appeared as the contents of an email sent to me.  I have deleted the link from this post because I don't want one of you jerks to get the pounds of cash wads before I do.  For a happier life, remember the 4 sudden p's. sudden presents, parties picnics and pleasure trips.  Where do I sign?

~~

Every person wants to be rich even if he or she denies the fact.

Withal guys do not like to take the responsibility and make decisions 24/7.

Of course, we do not give you pounds of cash wads but with our simple and understandable approach you can forget about tough limits that you have now.

Concentrate and teach yourself to get rapid bucks simply within hours.

You will always earn enough for sudden presents, parties, picnics and pleasure trips and your life will become happier.

Friday Extra: Just Kidding, Asshat.

I'm not really done blogging.  I just wanted to let Nate Keeler have a go at it.  I'm considering "embracing the pariah status"  I'm looking into the genius of Andy Kaufman for guidance and it seems to be working.

Yesterday on my commute home, I'm going through Elmwood.  I'm not on the narrow busy multi-use path to the west of it.  I'm on the street.  Oops.

As I ride along, a guy walking in the grass just east of the road points to the sidewalk and yells, "There's a bike path right there, asshat."

Maybe he had a problem with my helmet?

Anyway, I swung around into the parking lot and confronted him.

We discussed our opposing views for a moment.  Not to brag, but I was right and he was wrong.

Particularly when I mentioned that it was my strong belief that he was a fucking pussy who wouldn't do anything about it anyway and why the fuck was he walking on the grass when there was a sidewalk right there.

To this, he turned from me and walked away, holding out his hand making a shaking motion with it in mock fear.

"Told 'ya."  I said.

Man, I think I need more of those Nate Keeler pep talks.

Outro

Well that's it.  I quit.  I'm done.  I have been struggling over this for a long time, but I've come to realize I'm in some kind of cycling no man's land.  Somewhere between the local competitive riders and the social "fun" riders.  This is not acceptable to me, so I quit.  This is no joke.  I'm done.  I mean it this time.  

I'm done with this stupid blog too.  If you want to read something stupid, just go here.  And if you want to know where and when the group rides in Omaha are happening, go here.  Hopefully, you (unlike me) are among the select elite crew of cyclists invited to read it so you don't get the big "permission denied" page when you're looking for a group to ride with in Omaha.  Enjoy your ride, bitches.

Goodbye.

Friday Extra: I Haven’t Smelled That Since I Dyed My Hair Black

Back when I was considerably stupider than I now am, I had this friend.  He was not a smoker, but I was.  A nasty habit I had picked up at the ridiculously old age of 19.  Like most of the stupid dumbasses I hung around, I smoked Marlboro light 100's.  Hard pack, please.  I didn't switch to King size until I started working at a place that gave us 10 Minute smoke breaks.  Couldn't easily get 2 100's smoked in 10 minutes so the switch became a matter of what seemed like good economics.

I hid my smoking from my parents.  There just never seemed to be a good time to open that can of worms.  I sometimes wonder if they really knew I smoked and didn't say anything or if they were in denial about me smoking or if they just didn't notice my stench.

These days, it's hard to believe you wouldn't instantly know a smoker from about 50 feet away.  But back then, with smoking allowed in just about every public place, the smell could easily be explained away.

But my friend, Ric, was not a smoker.  He was (in my mind) a punk rocker.  To me, that was anyone who listened to The Dead Kennedys or Black Flag.  He also wore a long black overcoat.  I did too, but he was kind of short, so it looked (to me) really funny.

One day, I was walking around in the Old Market and I saw Ric.  We started talking and he pulled out a small narrow black box of what appeared to be cigarettes.  He offered me one and I took it - though I was surprised.  He was also 19 and it seemed a late age to start smoking.

"When did you start smoking, Ric?"

"Oh these aren't cigarettes.  They're cloves."

"Like the shit that people stick into ham?"

"Yeah.  You can smoke it and it tastes and smells terrific and it's not addictive and it's really cool."

"Hmm.  Okey - Doke.  You need a light?"

"Say - those do taste swell - but I think I still want to smoke tobacco.  But where'd you get these things anyway?"

"You have to go to David's Briar Shoppe at Westroads.  It's only about $3.00 for a pack of 16."

At the time, 20 Marlboro Light 100's was about $0.95.  I figured I'd go out to David's Briar Shoppe and get me some to pull out on special occasions when I really needed to impress the people I knew who would be called "Emo" had they been born 25 years later.

Also - I felt the freedom to light these babies up in front of my mom (not my dad) because Ric said they weren't cigarettes.  Mom was like - Yeah - neither is plastic, but I don't want to light it up and inhale it ...

So I haven't thought about Clove Cigarettes in oh, 30 years or so.  Yesterday afternoon, I was taking a walk around the building here at the company.  It was a lovely day and one time around the building is about 1/2 a mile.

As I went near the deluxe company smoking area, I got a whiff of the unmistakable scent.  Are you kidding me?  Someone was smoking cloves in there.

Later on, I looked it up and Clove cigarettes have been outlawed (for sale) for a few years.  I guess they actually are about 70% tobacco and 30% cloves and other crap.

They were outlawed because children find them so delicious.

But I know what I smelled.  A little further research led me to find that it is perfectly legal to make your own. In fact there was a 15 step simple "how-to" that included some marination and baking in the oven.

Seems a little bit much to go through, but I guess some people really want to be 1980's cool, no matter how much trouble it is.

You can hide, but you can't run (Rule 42)

... should only run if being chased. And even then, one should only run fast enough to prevent capture.

Ok, time to start being a bully again.  Brady and I have often discussed how we do not deserve Munson.  Here's the thinking.  Munson is always good (at least the Munson that Munson shows the world).  There is absolutely no reason to think there is a malicious bone in Munson's body.  Usually, I reward Munson's considerable kindness with less than nice words.  How does he respond to this?   By the time Munson gets done with me, I always feel like I've had coals of fire heaped on my head

Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head - Romans 12:20

So grab a shovel Munson, cause I'm hungry and thirsty for some Munson abuse.

A few weeks ago, I was Keystone Hammering (Yeah - it's a verb.  And you're a tool - I'm being a bully) on one of my Commuter Grand Prix rides, when all of the sudden - I noticed a commuter way up yonder.  Well, it wasn't too far from where I had to get off the trail, so I set this guy as the carrot to reach before Askarben.  As I buried myself to make the catch I began to ask several questions.  Is that Munson? Does Munson still ride bikes?  That's kind of Munsony looking hair, isn't it?

I figured, yeah that's Munson, so I rolled up next to him and said, "Hey Munson."

I hadn't seen that guy for several months so we chatted about all kinds of stuff.  He was near his house when we met, but he wanted to get a few extra miles in, so he rode on up to my house with me, where we discussed how much he needed to get back on the bike, starting the next day.

Well he was keen on the idea.  We rode the GSV Tuesday night route (on a Saturday morning) and he did surprisingly well.  Then he rode a lot the next couple weeks.  I had loaned him an extra Garmin I had and he joined Strava.

Also, Peter Boyd was riding with us.  The band was getting back together and it was (like totally high pitched) awesome.

Brady and I started to believe maybe Munson was really going to do it this time.

Then I made an error.  I jumped the gun, so to speak.  I was thinking that if the comeback actually happened, it would allay my concern that I'm just some stupid Ben Kenobi trying to do a job meant for Yoda.

The Ginnys are not awarded lightly (except that there was almost no thought involved in awarding them).  Never in the history of The Ginnys has an award been revoked.  I don't believe one ever will be, either.  But there is a strong contingent (existing only in my brain) calling to strip Munson of his award.

If you don't know about The Ginnys, it is the most coveted award in this area for great local cycling achievements.  It is thrown together by the fine folks over at the sister blog, Gin Soaked Vagina.

Arguably, the highest of all of these awards is the "Harden The Fuck Up" award.  Yeah, Munson won it.  It was based on a rather heroic effort during a winter ride earlier this year.  That effort stands on its own and the fact that Munson is now a big huge pussy will not enter into the equation.

To be fair, Munson has some sort of issue with his wrist that "kills" when he rides. Sucks for him.  He needs to take it easy or get to a doctor and find out what's going on.

Ok, enough being fair.

At first, it was the blogging that tricked me into thinking I was on the precipice of motivational greatness where Obi Wan had so miserably failed.  Munson's blogging, I said.  Oh it's on.  Crap!

Why was I saying "Crap!"  Because I know how good Munson is/was.  He doesn't, but I do.

In those couple of short weeks when Munson's wrist didn't have to hand out timing chips at wedding rehearsal dinners, his improvement on the bike was coming - I'll say it - a little too fast for my liking.  I could see that if he kept it up for any amount of time at all - he'd be dropping me like yesterday's old stuff that gets dropped pretty hard.

I was getting worried, sure - but I figured that it would just force me to improve.

Well that's over now.  I haven't heard from him in a couple of weeks.  He hasn't blogged.  He's done.

Too bad.

Oh by the way - Munson?  How about an early ride this Saturday for a couple of hours?  Everyone else will probably be racing cross.  Place your lame excuse in the comments section, please.

And I don't want to hear that you're doing the timing chips for the cross races this weekend.  Get somebody else to do it.  Let's ride!  Hyah!

Strife

I didn't want to fight.  I have never "wanted" to fight.  Not in the "Two people giving each other a physical beating" sort of way.

I wanted to laugh.  I wanted to make jokes.  I've mentioned before that in my early naivety, I would make jokes at other people's expense and was surprised that they didn't think it was funny too.

I don't know that the fight started from something in particular I had said or done.  I doubt it.  I think it was more of a general consensus from some of the classmates that if Jimmy and I fought, Jimmy would lose.  Jimmy's dad was kind of a biker dude.  He came across to me as a real badass.  I wonder if some conversation happened between Jimmy and his dad that made Jimmy think he needed to fight me.

None of that matters.  Jimmy had been talking for a while about how he was going to kick my ass.  I was completely mystified.  We had been friends for about 5 years (we were in the fifth grade).  There were three of us who were often described as the 3 smartest children to ever attend that little grade school.  Jimmy, Stephen and me.

Stephen was my best friend.  Jimmy was just this funny toehead who had a biting edge to his humor.  Certainly a little rougher around the edges than the rest of us with our looney tunes jokes.

When Jimmy let me know he wanted to fight me, I was scared.  I didn't know what to do.  I told him I didn't want to fight.  In a way - it was the first time for me that I questioned why life had to be the way it did.  Rodney King had not yet said it, but I was thinking, "Why can't we all just get along?"

But to some people, fighting was no big deal.  It was just something to do.

"What a pussy!"  Jimmy said, looking around at everyone who nodded in confirmation at my hesitation to start punching him.  Now I was horrified, but I thought I had just been given an out.  If being afraid to fight someone means you're a "pussy,"  whatever that is, I'll take it!  Yippee! I win.  Problem solved.  Whew!  Ok, guys.  Are we square?  I think we've all learned a valuable lesson from this.  Jimmy is not a pussy and I am.  Ok, I'll just go on home now.

"Hey faggot!  Where are you going?"  Oh crap.  Now I'm also a faggot, whatever that is.  Well I was happy with one disparaging title, but now I was not so sure.  There might be several names to endure if I stick with this whole "not getting into fights," thing.

So I walked the 2 blocks to home with my head down as Jimmy and some others yelled at my cowardice from the other side of the street.  They were not really allowed to go that way because they lived the other way and the safety patrols kind of monitored that stuff.  They would report you if you went the wrong way.  Nobody wanted to get "reported."    

You would also get reported if you were fighting on school grounds.  So I was safe because my street to cross was attached to school grounds.

But the derision from classmates increased as the next couple of weeks went by.  Stephen was in my corner.  In fact, Stephen would refuse to fight anyone as well.  We went around saying we were pussies.  But for whatever reason, nobody was giving Stephen any crap.  I think it was because I was taller than everyone.  I was something for Jimmy to prove.

I started losing sleep over it.  Dreading going to school.  Finally, I went to the one person I knew who knew about fighting.  I explained it all to my dad, but mom was listening.

Mom, bless her dear heart, said, "We need to talk to the boy's parents."

"Shhh," dad said, gently raising a hand to mom,  "That is exactly what we don't need to do.  If we do that, Freddie's problems will only be beginning.  It's a school yard fight.  Nobody will get hurt, but it has to happen or it won't end."

In the movie, "The Godfather" A dying Vito Corleone explains to his son what will happen as the other families plot against the Corleones.  He has so much experience, he can accurately describe how everything will go and what will be the aftermath.

My dad doesn't know the olive oil import/export business, but he does know about how childhood fights go.  It was amazing.

"Listen son.  I've been in a lot of fights.  I've won some and I've lost some,"  Then he winked to my mom.  I didn't know yet, but he had taken it upon himself to violently avenge all of his losses.

"I'm scared.  I don't want to fight anyone.  I didn't do anything."

"I know you didn't.  Fighting is stupid.  There's never a reason.  It just happens.  And I'll tell you a secret.  Jimmy is scared too.  More afraid than you."

Now I thought my dad was insane.  I began to think he didn't know what he was talking about.  He could see my skepticism and said, "How often do you look at other kids and wonder who would win in a fight between you and them?"

"Never,  Why would I ..."

"I know.  But Jimmy's not like that.  He looks around and sees someone he thinks can beat him up and he gets scared.  That's why he picked a fight with you.  He wanted you to back down.  He will continue to bother you until you fight him.  But everybody is scared to fight.  Either that or they are crazy.  The fear ends once the fight starts, then it's just crazy."

"But if he beats me up, it will be worse."

"No.  It doesn't matter who wins.  As long as you stand up and fight him, it will end.  You will be friends again."

Now I knew my dad was crazy.  That didn't make any sense.  There was a lot I needed to learn about the world.

"But I don't know how to fight.  I don't know what to do,"  I told Dad.  

Exhaling heavily, knowing he was going to take some heat from Mom, he said, "Well we should probably take care of that, then."

The first thing he did was explain how the fight would start and what to do next.  Then he taught me how to punch.

"What is your strongest hand?"

"My left"

"Then I'm going to teach you how to fight right-handed.  I am right handed, but I stand southpaw because this is not a boxing ring.  It's sloppy.  Usually over after one punch.  You'll lead with a jab.  You want it to be  powerful."

None of this made any sense to me, but he showed me how to fire straight out,  how to keep my knuckles in line with the top of my forearm, how to keep a loose fist, etc.  Then he had me practice on his arm.

"No - you're just pushing my arm with your fingers.  Flatten out your hand.  Better.  Better.  Ow!"  Yeah that's it.  Training's over.  Hit him with that.  He'll quit.  Ow."

So I was terrified, but after my dad's assurance that Jimmy was too and that the fear would stop once the fighting began, I took a different approach at school.  When Jimmy and his choir came up to me I told them that I didn't want to fight because I would be forced to kick his ass.

There was just a moment when I saw a tiny wave of what I was hoping was fear flash across his face, but it was probably just surprise.  As he regained his composure, we agreed to meet Tuesday after school on my side of the street.  He was allowed to cross my street on certain days because the cub scout meetings were on my street every other Tuesday.  We were both Cub Scouts or Webelos or whatever.

So Jimmy and about 7 or 8 unauthorized schoolchildren followed me on Tuesday to just out of sight of the safety patrols (who all knew what was going on and didn't report any of it).  We faced each other.  I got into the right handed boxing stance, ready to punch him like dad showed me.  But I was too hesitant.  Jimmy charged and knocked me to the ground.  Now I was on my back and he was wildly throwing punches at me and slapping at me.  I wasn't scared anymore.  Adrenaline took over and besides, none of these slappy-ass slaps were hurting me at all.  I felt exhilarated.  I put my arm around his neck and twisted to get him underneath me.  What happened next, I could barely believe.  Because he was considerably lighter than me, his legs windmilled through the air as I flung him to the ground.  Experience or not, he was simply completely outmatched.  I realized this as I decided to release a couple of weeks humiliation (literally) on his face.

In retrospect, it probably was not necessary for my dad to teach me how to punch.  Sitting on top of Jimmy, I wailed away at his face with my knuckles.  I was in some sort of frenzy.  The moment was captured perfectly in "A Christmas Story".  My arms were beginning to hurt from being tired, but I wouldn't stop.  The cheering stopped and people were yelling at me to stop hitting Jimmy.  I could not.  I think I would still be there if they hadn't pulled me off.  

Jimmy's face was a mess.  I saw my friend on the ground.  I saw what I had done.  It didn't matter that he had brought it about.  I had thought if I won a fight, I would be proud like my dad was when he always told stories of winning fights.  I wasn't proud.  I was more sad than ever.  I looked around at all of the kids who had wanted to see a fight.  I suddenly hated them.  I blamed them.  I was thinking if it weren't for them giving Jimmy steam, none of this horror would have happened.  It may sound as if I'm overstating it.  It's just a couple of kids fighting, right?  But for me, it was the most emotionally devastating feeling I had ever had.  

Forcing someone into a helpless position and losing control and refusing to relent.  I was disgusted with myself.

The other kids were staring at me like I was some kind of monster.  I had expected to be some kind of hero.  Now they just saw me as a bully.  I turned toward home and started crying.  Nobody came with me.  They all started home the other way without talking.  There was not the expected animation or excitement over the event.  Maybe they talked about it later, but I never heard a word from anyone about it ever again.

With each step away from the scene, I became more upset.  I didn't understand it.  I still don't.  I had expected to feel like a man if I could somehow beat Jimmy.  But I just felt like a fool.

At one point, I stopped walking toward my house and just stood and bawled.  I was completely alone inside myself without the mental maturity to console myself or forgive my error.  

Then this older girl Lisa, who lived across the street from us put her arm around my shoulder and said, "It's ok, Freddie.  Jimmy's alright.  You're ok.  I'll explain what happened to your parents.  It will be ok."  Lisa was sometimes our babysitter  She was about 3 or 4 years older than me so as with all girls 3 or 4 years older than me, I was in love love love with her.

But her calm voice and assurance was exactly what I needed to help me get a grip on my emotions and get home.  Thinking about it, this girl couldn't have been more than 13 or 14 years old at the time.  Man, girls mature faster than boys.

The next day, I was over at Jimmy's house in his room.  We were playing Hot Wheels.  He had a really cool setup.  I mentioned that it looked like he had something on his face and he slugged me in the arm.  I told him I'd have to teach him how to punch some day and we just laughed.


~~

 So after I finished this, I sent it to my mom to read.  We were on vacation this week, so I wrote it ahead of time.  She didn't remember any of these events, but it sparked a memory of her own that was interesting.  The following is an excerpt from her response to reading the story above (names changed, etc.): 


A couple months ago I was backing out of our driveway to go pick up Dee at work. This young man who had been sitting on the neighbor's porch visiting waved at me to stop. I thought he was a friend of theirs. He asked me if I was "Mrs. Thompson"  I told him no. He was very talkative. He was going around the neighborhood looking at homes he remembered and talking to anyone who might remember his family or him.  He went to Saunders in kindergarten, then to St Cecila's or Cathedral or whatever it was called.  I think he was between you and Steve in age.  The only people we seemed to have in common were The Johnson's (no relation) . He said he did not like Jimmy Johnson because he was a bully.  I said "JIMMY JOHNSON? I thought he was a wimp."  He said that Jimmy knocked down his little brother and took his Halloween candy. He found Jimmy and told him he knew what he did. I don't remember exactly what he did about it, but Jimmy did not like it. Pretty sure HE would like your story.  SO THIS morning I was cleaning out a desk drawer and found his card ...

~~

So to me, the big question is, why are people taking their stories of Jimmy's bullying to my mother?

Oh universe, you're a tricky one!

Interesting

Well, to me, actually.  Probably not to anyone else.  I'll take this blogging session as an opportunity for a little auto-therapy.

As this year has progressed, I've been able to drop (or add) things to my life to become a better cyclist. I started riding regularly last November.  My first limiters were fitness and weight.  As the time went on and I still couldn't hang with the best of them, I looked for reasons.  I found a few, but in the end, I still was unable to keep up for the whole WNW.

I came close a couple of times, but never quite made it.

I refuse to accept my age as an excuse.  There's really nothing I can do about that and anyway, I still believe there are things I can do to get better.  Two obvious ones are things like certain types of training I neglect (intervals) and the amount of beer I drink (more than I should, not less).

There's also the continuous application of the things I have improved on this year:

Sleep
Water
Food
Recovery

Oh yeah, and racing.  Racing is really the only way to get to top speed.  So who knows if that will happen.  I'm not going to make any claims about what will happen.  I've already done way too much of that (and been wrong).

During this self-analysis thingy throughout the year, I've  become aware of a fear I have.  What if I do everything correctly and I still can't keep up? Deep down, I don't believe that would happen.  I believe that if I paid closer attention to everything I'm doing I could become one of the best.  But maybe not.  The fear is I would get no better and then not only would I still suck, now I wouldn't have any excuses to use to rock myself to sleep.

I've realized that I find comfort in my excuses and/or rationalizations.  Last year, I made some blog post about chasing down Munson and Miles on the keystone.  I was proud of the achievement at the time, but then Shim made comments that showed the boasting for what it really was.  Pointless drivel.  Who cares?  It proves nothing unless you go out there and test it against racers.

I was glad for the revelation.  Since then, I have tried to make an effort not to boast.  Let actions speak for you.

This fear of failure after having done everything "right" is sort of a safety net for me.  I am free to say "Well, I could have performed better, if ..."

Even though I saw boasting about what did happen or what would happen in the future as meaningless, I still was not ready to completely abandon my safety net.

Then two days ago I read something that completely floored me.  I had to read it several times to get the meaning of it.  It didn't seem true.  I couldn't grasp how someone could think this way.  It was just a few words in a book.  It's been going through my mind ever since as I try to come to terms with it.

I am reading the book "Domestique" by Charly Wegelius.  It is his story about how he came to understand and relish the role of the domestique in the pro peloton.

He had been obsessed with the idea of being a pro cyclist from a young age.  He's talking about his first few pro races and his thought process in preparing:

I had to have trained properly, eaten properly, stretched properly and recovered properly too. It was an issue of conscience; if I lost and I had done everything, then I could accept it. But if I lost and there was one little box I hadn’t ticked, I couldn’t forgive myself.

I saw that and thought, no that's all wrong.  Then you'd be faced with the fact that you really weren't good enough.  How could you live knowing that?

The answer of course, that is 49 years in the making for me is: How can you live with yourself if you never really gave winning a chance?  I am still not sure I grasp the mind of a person that is completely without excuses, but hopefully it's coming.  But again, I can't speak to the future.  Maybe I will get it maybe I won't.

One thing is for certain though.  It really doesn't matter that much at all.  Whew.  As long as I remember that, I'll have one excuse to hang on to if I come up short (assuming I do actually compete at some point, which I probably won't).

Thanks Dr. Blog, I don't know if I feel any better or not (I don't) but I just wanted to talk through it a little bit.

Ok, That's what I thought.

At the company, there used to be this one guy who we'll call "Chris".  He decided one time that it was time for him to get back into shape.  He started dieting and losing weight quickly.  For exercise, he started "riding bikes" to work.  At that time, there were as many as 3 bike commuters coming to the office.  There was somebody who I never saw.  The bike was a comfort bike with some sort of potato powered head light or something and that was weird.

There was my super ultimate racing steed and there was Chris' road bike somewhere in between.

As Chris became more serious and rode in to work more frequently, he began to  pick my brain for info.  No problem.  I was glad to discuss "riding bikes" with him for a while.

Then he started boasting.  "My average to get here is around 25."

"Not bad at all," I said, "I'm right around there too."

Then the guy that sits next to Chris said, "What!?!  You guys average 25 MPH on your bikes!?!"

"Yes," Chris smirked as I said "No we're talking about kilometers/hour.  What?" As I realized Chris was claiming he averages 25 mph on his commute.

Chris in no way had the traditional cyclist physique.  I myself was about 15 lbs too heavy at the time, but he was what we used to call husky because mom would get mad if we called kids fat.

"Well that's pretty impressive.  Is it a flattish route, because I've seen some pretty powerful heavy guys that can really hammer it down the trail,"  I asked.  Totally not believing him.

"Well I ride most of the way in on the trail, but I'm also the best climber of all of my cycling friends."

"That's good.  You should go ride with the skinny guys.  I'd love to climb like them, but until I lose weight, that's not going to happen.  Probably not even then."

He countered with, "Skinny doesn't matter.  All my cycling friends are always shocked to see me drop them on hills.  They're always like - what the hell?  I've never been dropped by anyone as husky as you before."

At this point, I'd usually just drop the conversation.  This Chris guy was implying that he was some sort of freak of nature.  The truth is, unless I actually rode with him, I couldn't be sure (but I was).

No way this guy could drop me on a climb.  But I never said anything to him about it.  It didn't matter.

About a year or longer ago, Chris quit his job at the company and moved on.  I haven't seen or thought of him or his ridiculous claims since then.

At least not until he showed up on Yesterday's GSV ride.

This is a casual ride.  Luckily Bryan Redemske, Pete Duryea, and Fred Galata showed up because I had gone on a pretty mellow ride the day before and was hoping for a few harder efforts.

Basically, Bryan and I pulled leisurely the whole way.  Then we got to 30th and Hwy 36, heading West to 72nd.  It's never a steep climb, but it is a climb the whole way.

The shoulder narrows at one point so we got into a single line with Bryan and me trading increasingly more spirited pulls.  Just when I feel I don't want to go any faster, who comes flying around me at about 5mph faster than I was going?  That's right.  Unbelievable!  It was ... not that Chris guy.  It was Gregg Wollenhaupt and it was on.  Then Bryan, Gregg and I traded punches until Gregg got all toasty with about a half mile to the top and left it to Bryan and me to finish.

Yeah that Chris guy must've been dropping all his skinny cycling buddies about 5 minutes back.

Friday Extra: Hey you there, grab a mop and pail and clean off this here boat floor thing!

 I normally get into work each morning about 7 AM.  Yesterday, I got in early, ready to concentrate on finding the cause of a segmentation fault in some new code I was adding to some old server code. 

One of the reasons I started working 7-4 many years ago was I could usually get a lot done in that first hour before people started arriving to chat about the TV show I didn’t watch or the bad call on the game I didn’t watch or some other crap I don’t care about.

Don’t misunderstand; I don’t mind shooting the shit at work at all.  Because of the way I approach the code I write, though, it’s easier to problem solve in an environment with fewer distractions.

Don gets in earlier than I do.

So yesterday, as I was eliminating possibilities for why my code was causing a crash, Don walked up behind me and said. “You’re not dressed like a pirate.”

His presence startled me.  I hadn’t heard him coming.  After his statement, I thought, “Oh please Don.  I don’t know or care why you said that, but please shut the fuck up."

Let me say right here that I am glad that Don doesn’t take a hint easily.  Because as I’m snapping out of my concentration to respond to him, I’m rude.  Actually, I respond in a way that I think says, “Not now Don,” but Don is persistent.  I only have maybe 5 seconds tops for him to leave before I have to jump off my train of thought and wait for the next arrival.  After that time is gone, I’m all too happy to chat with Don about pirates.

But the first thing I said was, “No.  I didn’t,” and continued to stare at my screen, hoping he’d get the message.

“Oh because Krispy Kreme is giving away a dozen donuts to anyone who goes in dressed as a pirate.”

My last gasp before I enter into mindless office chit chat, “I don’t eat donuts,” still looking at my screen.

“I wonder how many people are going to Krispy Kreme dressed as pirates today.  Now that would be interesting to see.  Even you, a person who doesn't eat donuts would have to admit it'd be funny to see a bunch of people dressed like pirates and eating Krispy Kremes,” Don went on.

Snap.  Code puzzle solution progress reset.  Now Don has a captive audience.  There’s no way to get to where I just was with him standing there.  And at this point I don’t mind at all.  I like talking to Don.  The evil concentration demons have left my body for now.

“How does a pirate dress, Don?”  I asked, thinking of software or DVD piracy.  I was purposely avoiding thinking of the peg leg, eye-patch, black flag seafaring type of Pirate.

“An eye patch, of course,” said Don, “And they say ‘Arrrg’”

And that was all he had.  He then walked away.  The irony being now I was ready to chat and I was a little sad Don was leaving, “I better get back to work,” he said, “and happy ‘Dress Like a Pirate’ day”

Thanks Don.  I was thinking how sad it was that I've now missed "Dress Like a Pirate Day,"  for the 'however many times they've had it' in a row.  On second thought maybe Don does know how grouchy I am and chooses to bug me for kicks.  Seems reasonable.  I hope that’s what’s actually going on, because I can respect that level of fuckwithedness.  Good on 'ya mate. 

If there's ever a 'talk like an american saying aussie phrases' day, I'm gettin' me some donuts.  Oh shit.  I don't eat donuts.  Never mind.

And just so you don’t lose sleep wondering, I was trying to insert several elements into a std::map and the program was crashing on the second or third insertion.   In one of the files included in a file included in the file I was changing was the #pragma pack (1) directive.  I had include map (#include < map > ) after the line that included the file that included the file with the directive.  I just had to move the “include map” line above the other one and everything was all hunky dory.  Arrrg! 

Guest Blogger

I have nothing to say.  I've turned the floor over to myself at Gin Soaked Vagina.  Thanks and good night bitches.

The greatest fans in the country

Fans of Nebraska football have heard this throughout the years.  Great praise for the knowledge and courtesy of the Nebraska fans.  There truly is no place like Nebraska, so I have a little story of my own to tell.

I was at a game with my dad a couple of years ago.  Dad took me to my first Nebraska game when I was 8 years old.  It was Nebraska vs Wisconsin.  It was memorable.  Nebraska won that game 20-16.  I made a comment about how bad I’d feel if I was a Wisconsin fan who had traveled to see the loss.  My dad corrected me and said it was a good game and Wisconsin played well.  Behind us, a Wisconsin fan who had overheard echoed my dad’s sentiments and they shared a wry smile over my youthful ignorant spirit.

That is one way the greatest fans in the country are created.

Over the years since then, my dad and I have each been to several games.  We have never gone together though.  Coincidentally, we went to the game together in October of 2011.  Wisconsin was the opponent.  Nebraska took a bad beating from the Badgers that day losing 48-17.

After the game, I was waiting to get to the aisle to get down the steps when a very old man said to me, “Excuse me.  These steps are narrow and steep and my wife has a hard time walking.  Would it be ok if I rest a hand on your back as you go down the stairs so that we have some support?”

“Of course.  I would be glad to be of assistance,” and I truly meant it.  It makes you feel good to be able to help so much by doing so little.

As we got to the first landing, the man joked to his wife, “I told you these Nebraska fans aren’t all bad.”

Errrt.  What?  He was a Wisconsin fan!  I hadn’t noticed because he had been sitting in a Nebraska section and was wearing Wisconsin’s red.

At the revelation, I said, “Have a safe trip back home,” as I reached behind me and shoved him down the rest of the stairs.  His wife tumbled after him yelling something about her hip.  Good times.

Looking down at their decrepit crumpled remains, I got a little teary-eyed thinking about the greatest fans in the country.  Sniff.

Friday Extra: A Bicycling Magazine quiz

Parts of the bike frame quiz (choose the best answer for each question):

a. The top tube
b. The seat tube
c. Seat stay
d. Chain Stay
e. Bottom Bracket [shell]
f. Down tube
g. Head Tube

Extra Credit:
h. The fork
i. Front wheel hold tubes


__ The tube that is on top

__ The tube for the seat

__ The tubes that make the seat stay off the rear wheel

__ The tubes that make the chain stay off the ground

__ The tube on the bottom where the bottom bracket goes

__ The tube that goes down from the head tube to the bottom bracket

__ The tube in at the front of the bike (head tube)

Extra credit:

__ The tubes that hold the front wheel.  Careful: Not "front wheel hold tubes"

Bicycling Magazine

When I was first taking an interest in cycling roughly 35 to 40 years ago, I was hanging around in various bike shops drooling over some of the more elite road bikes.  Sometimes I’d notice a copy of a cycling related magazine on the counter of one of these places.  It was called “Bicycling.”  At the time, I figured it must be the written authority on everything cycling related.  I flipped through some pages and upon seeing the stunning beauty of the photos and the wealth of information therein, realized that once I had my own money and everything, I was going to definitely subscribe.

And I did.  I bought a nice 1986 Bianchi Campione d'Italia and subscribed to Bicycling Magazine.  Just for one year though.  I didn't really ride enough to care about any of that stuff.  I read maybe the first issue, and even though it seemed chock full of useful information, I never opened any of the other 11 issues that came to me.

But the next time I got into cycling ...  I had been riding consistently for a couple of years and decided it was time.  I was accomplished enough to deserve Bicycling Magazine.  I thought of it as almost something you had to have if you were anybody who had an interest in "riding bikes."  I subscribed.  Unlike the time before, I read each issue cover to cover.  There were interesting columns, useful product reviews, and even bike related fiction stories.

I think I had the magazine for 2 years before I realized they didn't really have anything new to say.  Each issue was basically a different spin on the same old crap.  Yes, there are new technologies or fads that come around, but I don't really care about those.  They will get to me eventually.

I don't know if they still do this, but the main thing I hated back then was the training plans.  Almost every issue would have some 12 week plan that you needed to follow if you wanted to achieve some greatness on the bike.

Then the next issue would come and there was a new, different plan.  Hey - wait - I was still on the last plan.  Do I need to add this to it?  That's when I realized they were writing to a crowd they knew was not going to stick to a plan.

Also, they had lists.  On the cover of each issue would be something like, "7 Ways to Make You a Mountain Goat,"  "5 Foods to Supercharge Your Legs,"  "4 Steps to Demonic Descents," etc.

It got annoying and old quickly.  Too many ads.  Too many reviews on really expensive crap.  Too little cycling news.

So I switched over to VeloNews and figured now I had really arrived!  And though this post isn't about VeloNews I will say this.  Fuck those guys too.

Anyways, last Saturday I found two issues of "Bicycling Magazine" in my mailbox.  I quickly checked the name and address.  They were mine.  I never ordered Bicycling.  So in my instant anger that they would just send these to me without my asking, I called the customer service line.  While the phone rang, I composed a brilliant speech for whoever (or is it whomevereth?)  answered the phone.  The following is a transcript of that speech:

   I don't know why you fuckers sent your shit to my house, but don't do it anymore.  I absolutely despise your shitty magazine.  Good day sir or madam!  Slam.

But unfortunately, I was greeted with a recording that informed me that I needed to call during the week and at certain hours if I wanted to tell somebody how shitty one of their magazines was.

So I sat at my desk and waited for Monday.  After about an hour of waiting (this was Saturday afternoon), I absentmindedly started flipping through one of the issues.  I couldn't believe what I saw.  This is not your father's Bicycling magazine.  They have completely changed.  They have heard the cry of their readers.  They even changed the lettering on the front cover!

The first thing I noticed was a helpful guide for getting the most out of your Cyclocross experience.  What!?!  I'm thinking of maybe doing some cross this year.  This is perfect for me!  Tell me what I need, Bicycling Magazine.  I'm not sure if it will stack up well next to the personalized tips I get from 2013 World Cyclocross Champion, Mark Savery, but it couldn't hurt.  I'm your newest fan, Bicycling Magazine!

Um.  What's that Bicycling Magazine?  I'm supposed to wear those for cyclocross?  Um.

Ok, but I don't think I could ride very well in them.  Oh wait ...

Spectating?  You've completely given up, Bicycling.  You're now a magazine that tells people how to look at people "riding bikes."  You suck.

"All the other cyclocross spectators used to point and laugh at my cold wet feet.  Not anymore, thanks to my new SpeedVagen Pit Boots!  Thanks, Bicycling's Jennifer Sherry!"

"Hey Cube.  You've been getting a lot of miles in.  You should seriously consider cross this year."

"Gee.  You really think I could race cross?"

"Race?  No.  You should come and watch some races, silly."

Well maybe I'll turn a few more pages and see if there's any useful reviews of overpriced products like there used to be.  Ok here's one, but it doesn't really apply to me.  Or does it, Munson?  Well, at only $130 each, I can't afford not to get both of them.

Ok, that was useful.  What else do we have?  How to be styling on a bike? Yeah, count me in!

Ok, I'm not riding in that, no matter how cool it is supposed to ... Hey wait a minute.  What's that bike?

Dammit.  That's my bike.  Get away from it, Style lady!  I just got done making fun of Munson.  Where'd you get that bike anyway?  Oh I see.

It's a classic Bicycling Huangist review.  About my sweet new Lumina (Some day, if you're lucky, I'll explain why I named it after perhaps the most boring car ever made).

Ok Bicycling Magazine.  I took your advice.  I bought this great new bike so I could still pay daycare and the mortgage.  But now what?  What's with all these levers and sprockets and things?  How do these gizmos work?

It all seems a little confusing.  Smallest cog harder?  Largest cog easier?  I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree Bicycling Magazine.  Anyway, thanks for the info.  I've cut out the "Cheat Sheet" and pasted it to that one tube on my bike frame that's on the top.  I don't know what it's called.  Hey there's an idea.  How about a feature for your next magazine about the names of the bike frame tubes.  I always get that confused.

You do that for me and I will surely subscribe.  As long as you print the same information again in a couple of issues.  Oh yeah - and make sure I get the 2014 Buyer's guide with my paid subscription.  And The Swimsuit Issue, of course.  Thanks Bicycling Magazine!

What are the odds?

Well I now realize that both of my sons are geniuses.  I just went into their room to tell them it was lights out and found them both huddled over a notepad where Jack was finishing his drawing.

"Ok lights out guys," I said.

"Wait dad.  I want to show you something,"  Jack stalled.

"Fine.  What?"

"Ok, first, here is a picture of a guy riding a moose," Jack said, showing me this:

Now both boys start giggling.  They know what comes next.  The writing is on the wall.  The instructions are on the notebook paper "turn to next page"  So with what I can only assume is the sweet innocence of a ten year old, discovering the beauty of absurdity, he proudly declares, "And here's a picture of a moose riding a guy!"  While both boys laugh hysterically.  I, on the other hand was deeply disturbed.  Oh I was also laughing hysterically.  On the inside.

How you know you've arrived

It's not when you're riding around in a skate park with full Rainbow kit:

No.  It's when people are referring to the World Champ as "Your friend."

You've arrived Scott Redd.  Congratulations.

Abe's Homework

One thing that I find incredibly boring is when people talk about what stunning little geniuses their children are.  It doesn't matter who it is or if the kid is really bright, I just don't care.  Mostly because the story is usually of something I've seen kids do a thousand times.  It is not unique.  It is just kids.  It is interesting how much children understand.  I think we usually see our kids as special because we've been underestimating them or something.

Anyway - if you're like me and hate listening to people talk about how brilliant their average children are, you can probably stop reading.  The following is all about Abe and working on his homework last night.  I was amazed by what happened.

Abe had some math homework that he was supposed to do.  He's 8 years old and in 3rd grade.  I like to supervise when they work on their math.  I've done this with Jolene and Jack.  For the whole time I have worked with those two, I have become frustrated.  It seemed that it had been easier for me than it looked like it was for them.  It wasn't that they were any less capable.  They would just become impatient.  Jack would tend to panic if he didn't immediately see the answer.

Last night was the first time I sat down with Abe with math homework.  Right away, I could see he was approaching it differently.  He was having fun.  There were several multiple choice questions and when he found the right one, he'd go on and read the rest of them just to see how they were all wrong.  I used to do that.  I never thought anyone else did.

The questions were mostly about "Place values."  Problems Like:

Fair enough.  But then (as far as I'm concerned) out of nowhere, came this combination question:

Ok - so Abe didn't know what to do here.  I thought maybe they went over some method in class, but I wasn't about to go into the whole n!/r!(n-r)! formula to show him how to get the right answer.  It might have taken too long to explain.  He said he thought the answer was "2".

I said, "How about we draw a picture and think about it.  So I drew 3 cartons of frozen yogurt and started drawing some cones to fill them with the combinations of flavors.  He then saw that the answer was clearly "3".  He asked if he should put down "2" because that's what he had thought at first.  I asked if he understood why it was "3".  He said he did, so I said it was ok to put "3" down.

We did a few more and he was getting tired.  Making silly mistakes.  I said he should go take his shower and come back and finish.  He said he wanted to finish.  I said ok.  Then about 2 minutes later he said that maybe he needed a break after all.  I agreed.  I told him that you can get this work done faster by taking breaks from time to time.

So he went off to take his shower and I went and started reading my book.  He got out of the shower and I told him to get his pajamas on.  After a few minutes, I went up to see if he had started back up on his homework.  He had.  In fact he had answered 4 more questions.  I was reviewing what he had done.  He hadn't said anything to me.  He was just working away.  Then I saw this already answered correctly:

I was confused.  How did he get that?  Did he just guess?  This one is much harder than the frozen yogurt one.  Then I looked over to the scratch paper we had used on the other problem:

Nice job, Abe.  Maybe I should have told him about n!/r!(n-r)!

Friday Extra: Shim is the new Cosell

I remember when I was very young that Mohamed Ali had been a hero of mine.  Then, for some reason, everybody hated him.  I didn't understand it at the time, but Mohamed Ali had refused to go to Vietnam, citing conscientious objection based on his religion (Nation of Islam).

He was arrested as a draft dodger and stripped of his heavyweight boxing title.  He was also not allowed to box for a while.

Throughout all of it, one man had the audacity to stick up for his old friend.  Howard Cosell.

But that's not why Shim is the new Cosell.

If you've never seen any of the interviews Cosell conducted with Ali, I recommend you go to youtube and watch some of them.  They are fantastic.  Howard Cosell is always egging Mohamed Ali on.  You can see how much he enjoys ribbing Ali just to get his reaction.  They both are acting angry and seem to be constantly on the verge of busting up laughing.  But unlike Harvey Korman talking to Tim Conway, they somehow can keep it together.

Shim is the new Cosell because Cosell was an impersonator's dream.  Everybody who wanted to do impressions in the 70's and 80's Started with "This is Howard Cosell ..."

I think after a while, people were no longer actually impersonating Cosell.  They were impersonating  Rich Little impersonating Cosell or something.  Even my dad tried his hand at it a time or two.


Well, Howard Cosell is dead now so it's time to pick on someone else for a change.  That's why everyone lately has been trying their hand at a Shim impersonation.  As far as I know, it started with Brady.  But it has spread like wildfire.  I think now some of the impersonations I hear are actually people impersonating Brady impersonating Shim (Brady is the new Rich Little).  I can't be sure, but each generation seems to be a little bit worse at it.

I personally hate to try to do impersonations of anyone.  I'm pretty sure I'd be as good at it as my dad was (terrible) But I feel in these difficult times, I should swallow my fears and come up with my own.  Here goes:  "I'm Shim.  What the hell is fred talking about."

Thank you very much.

Oh place of employment. You're so cute.

Shortly after I started working here at the company, I went over to human resources and asked if they did anything with The Corporate Cycling Challenge.  I only asked because I didn't want to pay for my entry fee if I could get them to do it.  My previous employer had always forked over the entry and had even provided some nice team jerseys to the "real" cyclists in the company (Shim).  I didn't bring this up to them though because I remembered how much my new girlfriends always liked hearing about great stuff my old girlfriends used to do.

"No,"  they replied.  They didn't really see any interest in the Corporate cycling challenge from the employees.

"Ok, can we get a bike rack or something. I'd really like to commute by bike."

"No, I don't think anyone else wants to do that,"  they said, "Besides, where would you shower (with soap)?"

I said something like, "I mean - maybe if there was a bike rack, people would use it.  As far as the showers go, I have been meaning to ask about that too.  Could we get some showers (with soap) put in here at the company, please?"

"No."

So I was pretty much screwed as far as commuting went.  I was kind of ok with it, though.  This was at a time in my life when I thought that I should be a golfer.  Looking back on it now, I just don't understand it.  I was so completely obsessed with golf.  Perhaps even more confusing is how quickly it dropped away from me.  I have almost no interest in it now.

I'm not surprised that the company also shot down my idea to use all of the spare land to the north of the building for a driving range.

But then the following year at the company, something changed.  I believe it was related to getting a better health care rate, but the company was suddenly interested in and promoting all of these fitness related activities and tips.  The new motto was: "A healthy workforce is a productive workforce or some shit like that."

You could sign up for the walking club.  This was a group of people that would take walks around the hallways inside the office for a while.  They were allowed to wear gym clothes on these walks.

There was a designated circuit for these walks and people would do several laps.  We were emailed links to calorie burning calculators and information about the value of being active.  It was weird.

Also, they installed a bike rack.  They cut a chunk out of the grass as far as possible from the front door and poured some concrete.  Then they stuck a Saris bike rack on top of the slab of concrete.  It is not bolted down in any way, it just sits there.

Still no showers (with or without soap) but it was a start.

I think the reason they put the bike rack so far from the front door (about 150 meters) is most people think you won't mind walking if you don't mind biking to work.  That's only partially true.  I don't wear my "street shoes" for riding so I waddle the long walk inside to my desk where I keep my shoes.

But again, that's not a problem.  Whatever.  At least there's a place to lock up my bike now.

After they put in the bike rack, I said, "Hey - thanks for the bike rack.  Can we get some showers?"

"No."

In the heyday of all of this fitness stuff (they don't really do it anymore) , the company was all, "Hey everybody, get off your lazy fat asses so we can strike a good deal with the health insurance companies.  How - you ask?  We're glad to tell you ...",

They decided to be sponsors for the Corporate Cycling Challenge.  Again,  all kinds of emails went out.  There were signs posted in the hallways.  If you wanted to do it, all you had to do was sign up and you'd get a t-shirt and entry fee paid.  So I signed up.  Once the deadline was passed for sign-up, the company team was announced:


So yeah.  It was just me.  "You think I could get a team jersey?"  I asked the company.

"What do you think the T-shirt is?"  They asked.

"A T-shirt,"  I said.

Then the company and I just stared at each other for a while, confused.

That was 2009.  Four years have passed and nothing has changed (for better or worse).  You learn to do what you need to to get by.  After a while, it seems like a small inconvenience.  I'm glad the commute is not less than 16 K, so I get a nice morning ride in.

But then a few weeks ago, a sprinkler system was installed.  Here is my relevant note to HR:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From: Hinsley, Fred
Sent: Thursday, September 05, 2013 10:44 AM
To:  HR (Human Resources) 
Subject: wet bike

Hello.  First of all, let me say that this is not really a big deal.  More of a situation I’d like you to be aware of in case there is a viable solution.  I am one of maybe 2 or 3 people that commutes to the office by bike.  I do this 3 or 4 times a week, depending on circumstances.  Recently, the sprinkler system has been giving the bike rack and surrounding concrete platform a good soaking.  This is not ideal for me. 

On Tuesday, it happened as I was standing there, unlocking my bike to ride home.  And though it provided great comedy for all those watching as I tried to hurry and get out of the way, it really isn’t ideal.

It may seem completely trivial, but I don’t know anything about the water that is spraying me or my bike.  Regardless, if my bike gets wet at some point in the day and is not cared for afterwards, it may suffer premature corrosion.

I’m hoping the sprinklers can either be adjusted so that they don’t spray the bike rack area or that I can park my bike somewhere where there are no sprinklers.

Let me know if you’ve got any ideas or solutions.  As I said at the outset, this is not a huge deal.  I can live with it.  It’s just one more inconvenience to deal with in my quest to bike to work.  Thanks.

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Much to my surprise, HR responded almost immediately.  I had not really expected much at all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From: HR (Human Resources)
Sent: Thursday, September 05, 2013 10:45 AM
To: Hinsley, Fred
Subject: Thank you for your Human Resources related inquiry

Thank you for your inquiry. Please note that as of March 16, 2012, this inbox is no longer being monitored.

For Payroll Questions: You can log onto to HRself-service to review your paystub, PTO balance and personal information. For all other questions email payroll@thecompany.com.

For Benefit Questions: Please email  TheCompany@someadvisors.com or contact them at [REDACTED].

For 401(k) Questions: Contact Principal at 1-800-547-7754 or go online to www.Principal.com.

For HR Self-Service Password Re-Sets: Please contact the helpdesk at  [REDACTED].

For Job Posting/Applications or VE Issues: Please contact jobs@thecompany.com.

For all other inquiries, please visit the HR page on the HUB or contact your HR representative.

Regards,

Human Resources

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Ok - so I guess HR isn't there anymore.  After asking around, I found out who to send my note to.  Then I went to lunch.  At lunch I was beginning to hate myself.  My note should have been more insistent, I thought. Or I should have come up with some suggestions for a resolution.

I was sitting in the cafeteria of the building looking out the window towards our smoking area.  Yeah we have a designated smoking area.  It's nice too.  It's right next to a door and it is covered to protect the smokers from weather.  Oh and there are no sprinklers that spray into it.

While I was eating my chicken sandwich, I started to think I should have said, "Can I lock my bike up in the smoking area?"

Then my mind went off on this rant about how they treat their smokers so well and their biker so poorly, yada yada yada.

But then an actual solution came to my mind.  Why do they have to water the bike rack during the day time?

I went back to my desk to add to my original note.  But when I got there, they had already responded:


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From: Person, A.
Sent: Thursday, September 05, 2013 11:17 AM
To: Hinsley, Fred; Facilities - Papillion
Subject: RE: wet bike

Wait - aren't you the guy that complained about no showers.  I fail to see the problem with the sprinklers soaking your dainty little bike and clothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Undeterred, I forged ahead with my suggestion:


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From: Hinsley, Fred
Sent: Thursday, September 05, 2013 11:37 AM
To: Facilities - Papillion
Subject: RE: wet bike

I just thought of a possible solution – if the sprinklers that douse the bike rack area could be set to not run between the hours of say 6AM and 6PM, that would probably work in most situations.

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And finally, The Company proved they are still here for the little guy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From: Person, A.
Sent: Thursday, September 05, 2013 12:24 PM
To: Hinsley, Fred; Facilities - Papillion
Subject: RE: wet bike

We have them set for 6 pm now.  So that's the time to be there if you still want to get your shower (with soap) in. You're welcome.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From: Hinsley, Fred
Sent: Thursday, September 05, 2013 12:27 AM
To: Facilities - Papillion
Subject: RE: wet bike

Thanks.

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