If you have to go to Kentucky, you're lost already.

Earlier this week, somewhere on Facebook or something, somebody posted a guide for commuting via bike to work.  The reason - this week or month or day is international or national or regional ride your squeaky-ass bike to work day or week or month or something.

It's hard to keep track of all of them.  In April, there was this "30 days of riding."  I only know about it because I saw several photos on the FB of people's bikes out in the weather.  These people were taking the 30 day challenge.  They'd post the photo of their bike with some comment like "Hey - I only got out for 0.27 miles because of all the wind/snow/rain, but it counts.

No, it doesn't count.  Well yeah, I mean technically, you did "ride" your "bike."  But the only reason you rode it is because you were bound by some arbitrary invention of FB to ride every day in April.

So what?

Now, this Month/Week/Day comes along and it is ride your bike to work Month/Week/Day.

Before, I continue, I'd like to say I think it's great that people are out there doing stuff to encourage the community to ride more and blah blah fuckity blah.  Yeah - I don't really give a shit if you ride or not.

I'm not saying I don't care about you, I'm just saying I don't care if you ride your bike or not.  Also - I don't care about you.

Unless there's some way to know that you were the asshole yesterday who "buzzed the tower."  That's what I call it when a Big SUV decides to go by a cyclist at around 50 MPH leaving roughly 6 inches of clearance.  This happens often.  I am rarely riding in a situation where the traffic doesn't have all kinds of room.  But these a-holes feel the need to either scare me or teach me a lesson or something.

Well congrats, a-holes.  It does scare me.  I will not be taught any lesson by a dipshit though so you're on your own there, I'm afraid.

But if you ever decide to heave your ample shanks over a top tube and go for a spin, I'd be delighted to ride with you and talk about whatever topic you desire.  Just make sure you let me know that the day before, you put me in mortal danger with your ridiculous antics.  We'll laugh and laugh about it, for sure.

I agree that the more people ride, the more it benefits me.  So that's cool.  But I didn't come here to wish and hope for a brighter bicycling future, a healthy community and a greener planet.  I came here to bitch for no reason other than it is about the easiest way to spill words onto a page.

The benefits of commuting by bike:
1) There is the fuel/money saving thing.
2) Exercise.

Did I miss any?  I don't think so.  I think that's about it.  

I will say that the experience of commuting on a peaceful route beats the crap out of any car commute where there's lots of traffic involved.  My morning drive takes me south, down 72nd street for several miles.  It's all aggressive, stupid dangerous driving.  Very stressful.

When I bike commute, it's mostly on the trail, and it's a quiet, peaceful time.  Huge difference.  I'm always in a better mood when I arrive at work by bike.

Honestly though, there are a whole bunch of good reasons not to bike commute.  They are sprinkled in with the guide I mentioned earlier and am going to skim over here in a minute.

Whatever "peacefulness" I get, the truth is I only commute by bike for one of the 2 reasons I listed above.  Exercise.  Integrating riding with my commute saves me a little time. That's why I commute when I don't have a big group ride or the weather is not wet.  I already have all the bike stuff.  I know what I'm doing.  There is not that much difference between getting ready to go on a ride or bike commuting, so that time would be spent either way.

Some people are dedicated commuters.  They ride in the rain.  They ride in the snow and ice.  These situations generally go against my reason for commuting.  Exercise.  On those days, I can get on the rollers for an hour.  Not too fun, but it suits me better.

So in the winter I can usually get in 1 or 2 commutes a week.  In the spring/summer/fall anywhere from 3 to 5, depending on what life/weather is doing.

I rode in on Tuesday and Wednesday this week.  I had reasons for not riding today or Monday.  Monday, it rained.  When I ride in the rain, I end up spending more time cleaning the bike, particularly the rims and brake pads, for too long to get the time saving benefit of integrating my commute with my daily exercise.

On Tuesday, a girl that works with me at the company came up to my cube to tell me that Friday was ride your bike to work day.  I thought this was interesting because I didn't know there was a specific day.  I had only heard that this was ride your bike to work week and maybe it is ride your bike to work month.

I asked her if she was going to ride her bike to work.  She said no but that she wanted me to know so I could make sure to ride my bike to work on Friday.

I thanked her for the information.  I'm sure she will ask me on Friday if I rode my bike in and she will whine a little bit if I don't.  I'm pretty sure she will be let down if I don't ride my bike to work on Friday after she already told me that Friday was the designated day and I often ride in on unsanctioned days.

If I ride in tomorrow, she'll get some sort of credit for it.  It might be as simple as being able to have a nice Friday night dinner with friends and family.  "Pass the beans and I know a guy who rode his bike to work today ..."

Gasps of amazement will be heard 'round the dinner table.  "Tell us more about this.  Tommy, go and get the others.  Aunt Janice has a story about a guy who rode his bike to work on ride your bike to work day."

But it looks like I took tomorrow off to prepare for a huge party we're having at 4PM Saturday.  Come on over.  It'll be a blast.  Seriously.  It's my daughter's graduation from college party.  What?  You didn't know that's a thing?  Well it is, so get your ass over here and enjoy some pulled pork.

Anyway - the bike commute guide I've been mentioning is here:
http://www.louisvilleky.gov/BikeLouisville/commuting_excuses.htm

This is a link to the FB post I read earlier this week.  I couldn't find the original FB post, so I went searching "Goggle" [sic] for it and found it had been lifted from Louisville Kentucky dot gov.

It is intended as an answer to the many excuses people have for not commuting by bike.  Unfortunately, the excuses are better than the answers.  I don't want to go through the whole thing, but I'll list a few examples (with my bulleted comments added in red) from the guide.  Notably, every objection can be better answered with a careful application of the 'V'.  For Munson:  "The V" = "Harden the Fuck Up":

I ’m out of shape

• Ride at an easy pace; in a few months you will be in great shape.
• No - you will not be in great shape from a few months of easy riding.  That is known as a Kentucky lie.

It takes too long

• The average commuter travels at 10 mph; the more you ride, the faster you will become.
• Trips of less than three miles will be quicker by bike.
• So let's see.  You live 2.5 miles from work and it takes you more than 15 Minutes to drive there.  This statement is known in Kentucky as a lie.  

It’s too far

• Try riding to work and taking mass transit home, then alternating the next day.
• Combine riding and mass transit to shorten your commute.
• Ride to a coworker’s house and carpool to work.
• Hey Bob - I'm getting into shape during ride your bike to work week.  Will you please give my sweaty ass a ride to work?  I'll just leave my bike here.

It’s raining

• Fenders for your bike and raingear for your body will keep you dry.
• If you are at work, take transit or carpool to get home; ride home the next day.
• Take transit or drive if you don’t have the gear to ride comfortably in the rain.
• I love the third one:  "We don't know.  Just fucking drive or something if it's raining."  This is exactly not answering an excuse.

The roads aren’t safe

• Obey traffic signs, ride on the right, signal turns, and stop at lights.
• Wear bright clothing.
• You are at no greater risk than driving a car.
• And by "no greater risk"  we mean to say, It's "opposite day" in Kentucky.

One final thought on all of this.  Honestly, I don't take the time to analyze why I love to ride so much.  When it comes down to it, I guess it's all the prize money I get.

Last March, I came in second place in a race.  I think it cost $25 to enter the race.  I probably spent many thousand dollars (directly and indirectly) to get to the fitness and the gear I needed for the race.  A couple of days ago, this arrived in the mail.  It only took it about 7 weeks to get here, but now I know what it's all for:

I have to get paid, as the kids used to say.


Finally - if you want the real answers to the Kentucky's bike commuter excuse list, here they are...

I ’m out of shape

• Harden The Fuck Up.

It takes too long

• Harden The Fuck Up.

It’s too far

• Harden The Fuck Up.

No bike parking

• Harden The Fuck Up.

My bike is beat up

• Harden The Fuck Up.

No showers

• Harden The Fuck Up.

I have to dress up

• Harden The Fuck Up.

It’s raining

• Harden The Fuck Up.

The roads aren’t safe

• Harden The Fuck Up.

I have to run errands

• Harden The Fuck Up.

charlie the perv

I've recently learned that someone I know is into child pornography.  As sickening as that is, I realized that it made sense in a way.  I was shocked when I accidentally found out.  A couple of moments later, I realized that this is a person that I've despised for a long time, but didn't know why.  Some people just give you the creeps.

I'm not ready to openly talk about this guy.  I've already written all about it, but the time is not right.

I will talk about my own brush with a pedophile.

I was 6 years old.  There was a very nice old man who lived across the street.  His name was Charlie.  He's dead now.  Well, either that or he's 120 years old.

Anyway, all the neighbor kids would play in Charlie's yard.  It was a huge downhill from his house to the street.  We would often climb the stairs to near his house and roll down his hill.  Great fun.  

And old Charlie was the nicest old man.  He always was friendly and gave us treats.  He was never grumpy like all the other old men.  He let us play in his yard for God's sake!

Everybody.  Say Perrrrrrrrrv!

   

Charlie's house is straight across from this porch.  It can't be seen in this photo, but that's where it was.

So my sister was not born yet.  She was on the way and we were going to move.  The duplex would not be big enough.  Dad was ready to buy a house.  Everybody in the neighborhood knew we were moving.

One day, old Charlie called to me while I was playing in his yard.  He was so friendly.  There was nobody else around.  He said he wanted to tell me something.  Ok, I thought.  He said I should come into his house.  I had never been into his house, but I figured he wanted to give me a present or something.  I went in.

Once I got inside, he said we had to go down into the basement for what he wanted to tell me.  I thought it was weird, and was a little scared, but it was Charlie.  I followed him onto the basement.

Once we got downstairs, he led me to an old chair next to the furnace at the far end.  He sat in the chair and told me to sit on his lap.

I sat on his lap and we were both facing the same direction.  He started telling me how I was such a good boy and he was going to miss me once I moved.  He put his arms around my chest and squeezed me to his.  I had no idea what a boner was, but he had one.  He was squeezing my butt and legs between his legs.  

I knew something was wrong.  I said my dad was going to take me fishing.  At that, he must have remembered who my dad was.  Most dads, upon hearing what had just happened would have promptly gone over and killed Charlie.  My dad was way worse than most dads.  

Charlie released me and said goodbye.  Innocent enough.  That was his cleverness.  Nothing could be proved and it was good old charlie.

To me, what's crazy about this is how simply a child could be abducted.  A trusted neighbor can snatch a little kid just like that.  If Charlie had decided to keep me, there's nothing anybody could have done about it.  I would have just disappeared.  Maybe.

Maybe, he'd have been discovered.  Maybe not.  I like to think I'd have been rescued, but who knows.  For whatever reason, Charlie decided not to follow through with whatever he had planned that day.  I could actually feel the shift. When he changed his mind and returned to humanity and let me go.  He sat in the chair as I bolted from his house, ashamed that I had done something terribly stupid.

When I got outside, there was still nobody around.  I went home.  Mom said she'd been looking for me.  I sat on the floor in front of the television and watched my favorite show - Bewitched - while mom finished up the ironing.  All in all, not a bad day.

Edit: Some additional thoughts/revelations ...

Before finding out about that guy I know who's into child pornography, I only thought of people who hurt children as non people who should without prejudice, be dispatched immediately to the other side.

Now - After considering this for a while - I think "Monster" is appropriate.  Monster has a feeling that the person is not entirely in control of their actions, which I believe.

I think any action taken against the monster should be with the goal of protecting the children.

On the way into work today, I was thinking how easily children believe in monsters.  I was realizing this potentially plays a role in protecting them.  What is a Monster if not some overpowering force that acts based on it's twisted nature.  Yeah - pervs are monsters.

Also - true story:  When I was little, I thought the song "This old man, he played one ..." was literally about Charlie. I thought "this old man came rolling home" referred to the big hill out in front of his house that we always used to roll down.

Later I thought I knew what "played knick-knack on my knee" was ...

Brigadier General George Barkington III

Earlier this evening, I was sitting at my desk trying to figure out what to write.  This happens once a week.  Every week.  Well, not every week.  Sometimes I actually have an idea of what to say before the deadline.  Sometimes the whole thing is written before Thursday.

A few days ago, Rafal posted to his blog.  It was a good read and you should check it out.  He seems like a different person when he writes than when you talk to him - or rather listen to him - or rather get berated by him on the Facebook.

One thing he talked about was how quiet he noticed a lot of cyclists were during this Trans Iowa thing last weekend.  He said that if they just wanted to look down and be quiet, fine.  But they should know that Rafal's going to blab about any stupid little thing that comes to his mind.

Then I realized, he rides like I blog.  And vice versa, or something.

So I was sitting here looking around for some inspiration.  I thought maybe I should just call somebody and start shooting the breeze.  A story would come to my mind in the process and I could write that down after I got off the phone.

That's when I looked over to the book shelf and saw good ol' Brigadier General George Barkington III.

Brigadier General George Barkington III is a ceramic bust of a highly decorated vet.  Well it's a battery powered clock embedded into the "sculpture."

If you've ever been to Tuesday Morning, you probably know where he came from.  Now all you need to know is why.

Every Christmas, Jill's side of the family does a white elephant sort of gift exchange.  There are 7 brothers and sisters in Jill's family.  The number of siblings in the room determines how loud they are.  The noise level of any room they occupy doubles for every additional sibling.  Really.

noise = 2^(n-1) where n is the number of people.  So it is exactly 32 times louder when they are all there than if it is just 2 of them (which is also loud).

Jill's brothers and sisters exclusively marry "listeners"  so it works out.  When it is just them in a room and no spouses, they are all talking at once.  The volume ever increasing with the belief that if someone can't hear you, louder is the answer.

Generally speaking, they are all extremely competitive.  And not just in one particular discipline.  Everything is a contest.

Including the white elephant gift exchange.  Every year, after the dinner and sitting around for a while, it's time for the 45 minute explanation of the rules of the gift exchange. There are arguments.  Rules are amended and decided upon.

Oh yeah, and there's lots and lots of shouting.

I never bother to pay any attention to the rules.  This certainly seems foolish to Jill's family, because I may miss out on some white elephant windfall due to poor strategy.

Generally - it works like this:  We draw numbers.  Number "1" opens the gift of his choice.  Number "2" can take Number 1's gift or choose from the pile.  Number 3 can choose 1 or 2's or open a new one, and so on.  At the end, Number 1 can basically take any gift.  If somebody steals your gift, you open a different gift.

There might be other rules and limitations, but that's the basic idea.

But the clear winner of Christmas is not the one who ends up with the most coveted gift.  It is the person who brought that gift.

About 2 months before Christmas last year, Jill came home from Tuesday Morning knowing she was going to win this year.  She knows her family and how they'd fight over something as silly as this ceramic dog clock.

It wasn't even fair.

Sadly, Jill was sick on Christmas and unable to see the hilarity.  I called her during the height of the pandemonium so she could at least hear the reaction to Brigadier General George Barkington III.  She was not at all surprised that her family had already named the dog.

"I knew it," was all she said, listening to the cries of "Cheat!"  or "I'm getting that goddamn dog!"

The Dog clock was about the second of the gifts to be opened and it was stolen time and time again.  Side deals were  made.  Alliances were formed and there was double crossing everywhere.  In the end, the coordinated effort of a family of 4 with 3 entries was able to muscle the dog from the others.

An arbitrator was called in to verify that the winners did indeed have a valid claim to the statue.

A pair of brothers who share an apartment ended up with the statue.  I ended up with a case of a variety of beers (Jill wasn't there, remember).

The funniest thing about all of it was the Dog Clock's name.  It was sort of spawned from the melee of voices that make up any gathering of Jill's family.  A clear loud deep voice rose from the crowd to dub it, "Brigadier General George Barkington III"

After we all got done laughing, we knew it was the dog's name.

So how is it that it is sitting over there on the bookshelf?

About two days after Jill bought it, she realized she liked it so much she had to have one for herself.

So we got one too, but even though it is an exact replica of the other one, it somehow feels like a cheap imitation.  It would be the same if we'd wrapped this one and kept the other.

Kind of like buying trophies.  Looks nice on the shelf, but you didn't really win it, did you cheater?


Also - I almost forgot.  In case you're not convinced how cool this statue is, check out the styling ponytail ...

How not to get your ass kicked by an old man

Not that I'm an authority or anything.  I just think there are steps you can take to keep yourself from getting your ass kicked by an old man.

Every once in a while, there will be a story in the paper about how some old man beat up some young adult who meant to rob him.

It always goes like this:

Kid breaks into old man's house.  Kid has weapon; Knife, gun, tire iron.  Whatever.
He starts yelling at old man, threatening him.  Old man takes weapon from kid and shoves it up kid's ass.  He then keeps kid around so cops can fetch him.

The kid goes from thinking he's some sort of criminal badass to having some feeble old guy with a little moxie get the better of him.

This is sad.  The shame.  Can you imagine?  As if that wasn't enough.  The story is published online where the whole world can not only read, but also comment.  You may not believe this, but most of the comments are from people praising the old guy and laughing at the kid.  Some even think the kid deserves more punishment.

He does not.  The humiliation of the events is enough.  Rather than try to ruin a kid's future, wouldn't it be better if he could be reformed?  If he could learn the basics of not getting his ass kicked by an old guy?

Yes, of course it would.  That's the reason for this post.  If I can help just one kid, I will feel I've done my job.  Then I'll call in sick because I still have to go to my real job otherwise.

Here's a handy little guide I whipped up.  I hope it helps.  You're welcome whipper snappers.

1)   Stay away from old people.  Isn't it funny how often the answer is right there in front of us?  Just don't try to take stuff from old guys.  I know they look frail and weak, but they were your age once.  If they can kick your ass now, just think what they would have done to you back then?  Whew!

The good news is that if you don't provoke them, they will leave you alone.  They didn't get to be old by starting fights.

2) Learn to fight - or at the very least, learn some basic self defense.  You may never need to defend yourself against an old guy, but it's better to have it and not need it than - say it with me - need it and not have it.  If you're going to be getting into showdowns with old people, 9 times out of 10, no problem.  The old guy gives you his stuff and you're on your way.  But that 10th guy?  Is it worth getting beat up and laughed at by the community/world when you could have spent a couple of hours learning self-defense at the library?  I think you know the answer.  Get some training.  A little goes a long way against old people.

3) Choose your target judiciously.  If you absolutely must accost an old person, there are certain types you should avoid at all cost.

 3-a) Thick glasses that look like they automatically darken in the sun.  Watch out for these guys.  They're worse than old guys in track suits.  Whether or not they are/were ever in organized crime is irrelevant.  They will beat your ass before their lenses have a chance to adjust to the light in the room/outdoors.

My wallet, eh?

 3-b) Old guys in track suits.  These guys are in organized crime.  Even if you should somehow get the better of one of these good fellows, there's a Colombian Necktie in your future.

I swear. I'm just gonna talk to the kid, sweetie.  

 3-c) Blurry tattoos.  This may not be so easy to tell on a cold day.  But if you are about to make your move and your "victim's" arm is stained with unintelligible blue blobs, just get away.  This is probably a Marine (they tell me there are no ex-marines).

Try not to bleed to death before the cops get here, princess.

4)  Mug other pussies like yourself.  Again.  Sorry if it's obvious.  But since you can't handle old guys,  others like you are most likely your best bet.  Approach only other young "tough guy" criminals and you should be fine.

5)  Don't go on a bike ride with Shim.  About the quickest way to get your ass kicked by an old guy is to engage in this risky behavior.  Just don't do it.

And Sceeeeeene!

I got nowhere else to go

This is the fourth time I've started tonight's post.  The other 3 are fan-effin-tastic, but just not ready.  Since I have to get something posted, I'm just going with the stupid boring old WNW report.

Last night was the first Wednesday Night ride I was able to attend this year.  I want to work something out where I can go every week, but we'll see.

Recently I talked about inspiration coming from strange places.  Well, I'm going to talk about it again.

On last night's ride was Jordan, Paul Webb, Lucas, Grant Rotunda (probably a real last name), Brady, Leah and that bad mofo on keyboard right now.  Check it! [plays awesome keyboard riff]

I went on this ride having no idea about my fitness as it relates to the others.  I haven't been on any group rides in a very long time.  I didn't care if I got dropped, I just wanted to see where I was and decide what to do from there to kick everybody's ass next week.

The temperature during the ride went from about 60F to 40F.  It was a strong NW wind.  So the way out was brutal.  We tried to paceline - but it was a mess.  Echelon would have been ideal if the roads were closed, but what do I know?

The way back though - all tailwind.  Nice.  From Ft. Calhoun, we headed east toward Boyer chute.  Spinning comfortably at 30MPH.  Then we turned to the south and got organized.  The paceline was going pretty smooth when there were murmurs of "we lost one."

Guys were kind of sitting up and saying, "Should we wait?"

I think the answer was "No."

Actually, I think if I hadn't dropped off, they would have wondered what to do for a while.  But it was a gray cold night getting colder and grayer, and I've been alone on that road before and it really sucks.  So I stopped pedaling.  As soon as the rest of the group saw that I was going to wait for Leah, they moved along.  They knew she wouldn't be left alone.  All was fine.  The race was on or whatever.

For me, it was a complete switch.  Well, the rest of a complete switch.  The first part of the switch happened a few days earlier.  My son is getting excited about mountain biking and I'm finding myself putting his training before mine.  It's a realistic look at life.  Where am I going to take this bike racing thing?  I'm 49.

Do not misunderstand.  I will compete as hard as possible and do everything I can to reach my best.  But some things are just more important.  Big picture.

Big picture is we're on a remote road on a quickly darkening and chilly night.  We should not leave somebody out there alone.

And here's the change.  Normally, I would have done everything I could to stay with that front group.  I probably would have lasted until the final big climb.

But on this night, I couldn't care less.  There was this wonky feeling in my chest.  I think people call it "compassion" or something.  Not that Leah needs it.  She's one of the toughest people I know.  If you drop back to her on WNW, you better be serious or she'll kick your ass.

Unlike a lot of people, she doesn't gripe about it.  She knows she's going to get dropped on this ride.  That's why she's so strong.  That's why she often laps the field in real races. She doesn't shy away from the dreaded WNW.  If everybody was like that, we'd have 30 people show up every week.

There are a lot of guys who show up, get their asses kicked and never return. They could learn from Leah.  They'd get faster if they rode with faster people.

After I had lost contact with the group and Leah was making her way to me, I noticed Brady was also drifting back.  Nice.  I've seen Brady do this on many occasions in the past, but only as I was continuing with the lead group.

So in the end, I rode back in with Leah and Brady.  While we were riding I realized how much I admire these two riders. They are nothing alike, but there's a common attitude I see in them, that I see in few people.

They are up for any challenge.

Last winter, Rafal led a few of us on a cold 50MPH windy gravel ride in Iowa.  It was brutal.  We were exhausted.  As we were heading home on our cross bikes, I joked to Brady, "Hey you wanna do a lap of Lewis and Clark real quick since we're right here?"

Brady said, "Not really, but I will."

That's the attitude.  If somebody would have asked me if I wanted to do a lap, I would have said, and I quote, "No."

Oh say, that reminds me.  Let me back up.  I may have given the impression that I think these 2 are somehow special.  I'm so sorry.  I did not mean to do that.  I mean, I'm sure they're great and everything, but certainly the rest of the group is a bunch of champions too.  It's just that I'll never know about it because they insist on riding so far in front of me.*

And sceeeeene!

* Samuel L. Jackson is a genius:  Sewer rat may taste like pumpkin pie, but I'll never know 'cause I ain't eatin' the filthy mother-fucker.

  

It's that time of year!

It's been a few months, but we now get to share the keystone multi-use path with other people on bikes.

I remember the first time I saw somebody with one of those bicycle specific rear view mirrors.  Not those that attach to the handlebar and vibrate. Not even the ones that attach to a helmet. Nobody wore helmets back then.  No, these clipped right on to eyeglasses.

There was this guy in our neighborhood who was kind of a "pussy" as my dad would have called him.

He usually wore light brown corduroy slacks and a sort of plaid greenish button down shirt.  Also, he rode his bike everywhere.  He had these leather strap things to secure the bottom of his pant legs so they wouldn't come to any harm at the hands (or teeth) of the bike's drive train.

I was probably 10 years old or so and when I realized what the mirror attached to his "spectacles" was, I thought it was one of the coolest contraptions ever.  I knew I had to have one one day.  I hadn't yet realized that humans, unlike cars, can turn their heads.

I've since changed my opinion about these ridiculous mirrors.  I no longer feel that they are cool at all.  But maybe old people can't turn their heads.

The three people I saw on the trail the other day all had helmet rear view mirror devices.  They were all old.  Older than me even.  Who knows - maybe one of them was the guy from my neighborhood 40 years ago.  Let's just say it was him.  Let's also give him a name (♫ Tommy can you hear me? ♫).

This geriatric group was riding exclusively on comfy bikes.  When I was still about 200 yards behind them, they were riding 3 abreast.  As I approached, one rider must have spotted my reflection from her fancy helmet-mirror-attach-o-matic because she fell in behind the one to the extreme right.  Now they were 2 abreast.  Progress!

I rolled up beside the one who had moved over and said, "on your left," to get the attention of the man now in my way.  That worked about as well as his helmet mirror did (it had absolutely no effect).    

I will say at this point that I don't really care.  I'm patient about that sort of thing anymore.  There are children and puppies and things on the trail.  I'm not in a hurry.  I'll move along when I can.  It's all lollipops and butterflies for me these days.  Caveat: Those stupid goose things that sit on the trail and don't move until you go by them and they kind of hiss at you and start to run toward you.  Screw those guys.  They suck.  Maybe somebody should attach some kind of a beak rear view mirror on those assholes so it won't come as a complete surprise when the tenth cyclist in 25 seconds whizzes by.

Oh yeah, old people ...

So after a complete lack of reaction from the man in front me, I said again, a little louder, "On your left."

Nothing.

I could have sat behind him all day, saying on your left and giggling about it with Janice (that's what I'm calling the woman I was riding next to at this point).  It wouldn't have bothered me at all.  I thought it was funny.

I looked over to Janice to see if she was sharing my amusement.  She wasn't.  Also, she misinterpreted my glance in her direction.  She probably took it as a plea from me to tell her old grandpa friend to get the hell outta my way.

It wasn't.  I wanted to make fun of her deaf friend with her.  But she couldn't understand that.  Her slightly defensive response to me is the reason for this post.  By way of explanation for Tommy's inaction, she said, "He's drinking water."

The message was clear: "Are you blind or just stupid? Can't you see this man is thirsty?  All you care about is getting around him, regardless of whether or not he's in some serious need of hydration."

I have spoken before about the 4 or 5 things I learned last year that are of the utmost importance when it comes to cycling performance.  Proper hydration is near the top of that list.  So I was a little appalled by the unspoken message Janice was preaching at me.  I shrugged as if to say, "You know what Janice?  Don't tell me about the importance of proper hydration! I'm the hydration master. Got my technique down and everything. I don't be ticklin' or nothin'"*

What I didn't understand was why a deaf, blind, thirsty guy needed to be on the left side of the road to take a drink.

After I got done silently giving Janice the what for, I turned my attention back to Pinball Wizard and repeated the mantra "on your left" for a while.  I even tried to make it all spooky sounding.  drawing out the word "left"

Like, "Ooh scary.  On your le-e-eft."

Nope.

Eventually, break time was over and Tommy returned the bottle to the cage.  Finally.  Now he has one less reason to tool along in the left lane.

Turns out Janice was wrong though.  It seems the "None shall pass while I hydrate" rule was irrelevant.  After Tommy took out a small napkin and carefully dabbed at the corners of his mouth to clean up any wayward liquid from his recent foray into dehydration.  Sorry.  That last sentence was stupid.  I was just goofing around and now I don't feel like going back and fixing it.  I'm certainly not going to read that piece of shit.  Writing it was annoying enough.

That's when Janice spoke up, "Um, Thomas, this gentleman would like to pass."

Thomas got startled and almost swerved into Janice trying to get out of my way.

This made me laugh because Janice's excuse for Tommy not moving over was that he was drinking water.  Now that he was done, she would help me get him out of my way.  Like "That water thing?  That's my story and I'm sticking to it."

But then after I passed and was on my merry way, I remembered something.  Old people Love Roger [sic] Kipling.  Maybe I had it all wrong.  Janice was cleverly referencing Jungle Law.  No attacks during the "water truce."

It is a time of drought in the jungle, the rains have failed, the green plants are dying in the heat, and most of the sources of water have dried up. Hathi, the wild elephant, proclaims the Water Truce according to the Law of the Jungle, so that all animals can come and drink at the shrunken Waingunga River with no fear of being killed by predators.-- Rudyard Kipling, How Fear Came, The Second Jungle Book

Naah. They're all just stupid old people with mirrors on their heads.

And sceeeeeene!

*Samuel L. Jackson is a genius.

Friday Extra: On Giving Up

It occurs to me that there are a few things that inspire me to continue riding.  To not give up.  I never know where they are going to come from and they don't always make a lot of sense, but they somehow become a part of my internal dialogue.  Every once in a while I hear these things going on in my head and I stop and think, "Where does that come from?"

It's rarely some sort of amazing quote about being a hero or anything.  Normally, it's an offhanded remark that probably was not intended to inspire at all.  There are 3 of these pesky little proverbs that regularly speak to me from beneath consciousness.  This morning I captured all 3 and was able to recall their origin.

Admittedly, the first one was from sort of a "win one for the Gipper" speech.  It was an email from Brady about how I need to get back on the bike. This was maybe 3 years ago.

Brady:

I saw you at the Trek Store back in May.You were riding a lot back then. Now that Jack's back in school, can you resume commuting to work or something? How else are you getting your excercise? Golf doesn't count. Get back on it. You'd make great gains in a short time. Then we could ride sometime.

Then the prophetic:

When you get tired of golf, come back. Good times await.

The emphasized words above are what stuck for some reason.  Don't know why.  They are still there, driving.  They are not alone though.  They are accompanied by a quip Shim made last summer.  This one drives me on as much as anything I've ever heard.

It was on the Wednesday night Trek store ride.  The climb they call the Surfside KOM.  I always get dropped there.  In fact, after giving it everything several weeks in a row and failing, I wasn't aware of it, but I had stopped really trying.  We'd all start up the hill and I was resigned to getting dropped.  I'd sort of pull over and get into a rhythm for the rest of the climb.  Slogging along until the regroup a few miles south of Dodge park.  

One week as I pulled over, Shim went by and said "Don't quit, Cube." There was no discernible emotion.  It was matter-of-fact.  The tone in his voice was almost one of impatience.  Like I was taking a report card to my dad.  He'd take one look and know I wasn't really trying.
  

So I thought, Oh alright.  Then Shim slowed a bit to make sure I was on his wheel and pulled me for as long as I could hang on.  I still got dropped, but I knew I went absolutely as hard as I could.  Which was a lot harder than I thought I could.

When I need to hang on a little longer, I realize "quitting" isn't the way to get it done.  I always hear "Don't quit, Cube,"  in that same accusing tone.   

The last one still surprises me, but it's in there.  It's from the movie "Joe Dirt."  Seriously.  

I haven't seen the movie in years, but it seems like Dennis Miller is giving Joe Dirt some crap for being such a big huge loser and why doesn't he just give up.

Joe Dirt is a big huge loser, but he always remains upbeat.  He's spouting some philosophy and he says something like, "I gotta keep going.  What am I gonna do, quit?  That's not an option."

As stupid as that (and the movie) is, there's something there.  When you are living, quitting is not an option.  That's why giving up feels so crappy.  Regret comes not from failing, but from not trying as hard as you can.

Boobies.

Heh, Heh, Heh, No excuses, part 3 of 2.

Man I hate it when people make excuses.  Also, I seem to have a problem with people who live in Phoenix.  But that's not important right now.  What is important is that now it gets real.  It's April 3^rd.  The Wednesday Night World Superfast race thing has 2 weeks under its belt already.  The first Nebraska road race weekend of the year is a distant memory from almost 2 weeks ago.

With the changing season, we're all going to be kicking the training up a notch.  No more complaining about how (read this part with a really nasally mocking sound) "Oh, it's too cold and yucky out! Oh, I don't wanna get my widdow toes all cold and everything."  No more gosh darn excuses.  Get the fuck out there and ride.  See?:

What?  Snow?!?  No fair!  Waah!

I bring this up because my actual true reaction when I saw this was a little smile.  Also, I chuckled a bit, saying, "Heh, heh, heh."

Admittedly, I have not put in near the miles I had at this time last year.  Some of that is weather related, but most of it is just business around the house.  The reason I wanted to add a part 3 of 2 (this post) was when I heard myself say "Heh, heh, heh!" I realized how true my post from fall (looking forward to winter) was.

So what if it snows?  I'll figure some way to get a ride in.  Or I won't.  No biggie either way. This is drastically different from my attitude every year of my life until the last one.

I think I figured out why.

I'm old now.  I believe that the older you get, the more important it is to stay active.  Also, as life gets more complicated, it becomes increasingly difficult to stick to a regimen.

It's easy to come up with reasons not to exercise.  Stuff that needs to be done around the house.  Taking kids to events.  Doing stuff with them. Injuries, illness and so on.

Or you could just say, "I'm too old for this sort of thing."  Lots of people do that one.

I think the reason the weather doesn't bother me anymore is that it's less of a hindrance than the rest of the things in life that get in the way.  Once the kids and house and work and stuff is taken care of and there's a chunk of time I can go for a ride - I'm not letting crappy weather stop me.

Life's too short to waste days waiting for a nice one.  Unless you live in Phoenix.  Then, the sooner your miserable life in hell is over, the better.

Also - I won't make an excuse about how short this post is.  In fact, I'm sure most people prefer that.  You're welcome, most people.

Flowers and Bunnies

Tour De Husker Road Race, Cat. 4, March 22, 2014.  Raymond Ne.  Temp: 23F

~~

I got a text after the race that asked me how I felt it went.  I said something like, "Smart."

I've never really had any idea of what to do in a race before.  I've only had the fitness for it to matter one other time.  Even then, I wasn't exactly racing "smart."

I'm far from smart when it comes to racing tactics. I've learned a little from experience about not going in too big a gear too early, but otherwise I generally have no idea what to expect or what I should do in certain situations.

That's why I'm kind of glad I read This Book over the winter.  It's a quick read and there's probably nothing in it that a Cat 1/2/3 guy doesn't already know.  But as a lowly Cat 4, applying a couple of things they talked about helped me finish way higher than ever.

It talks about 2 things in particular that I have always done wrong in  the past.  Conserving energy and trying to figure out the winning breakaway.

First of all, after watching hours of the Tour De France every year, you can start to feel that all breakaways are doomed.  This is hardly the case in amateur races.

Next, I always felt an obligation to do my fair share of the work in road races.  I've changed my stand on that one also.

The night before the race, I looked at who had signed up.  I knew that anything was possible, but I was mainly concerned with the people I know.  I couldn't guess about the ones I don't

Of those, I thought the favorites had to be Travis Loewens, Jakob Wilson, Rich Anderson and Me.

Greg Hagele won the race, but I don't know him and had never met him.  I think he was ranked highest on the USACycling race predictor thing, but since I didn't know which person he was, I couldn't really watch out for him.  I don't know Rich Anderson either, but I saw him race at the Papillion Twilight Crit last Summer and he seemed pretty strong.

Travis and Jakob, I've ridden with on several occasions and we are all roughly at the same level. 

So the people I decided to keep an eye on during the race were: Travis, Jakob, Rich, and Team Kaos.

Team Kaos and Greenstreet Velo each had 3 or 4 riders in our little 12 man group.

Husker Road Club had one rider.  So I was the designated team captain, domestique, sprinter, etc.

Immediately after the neutral rollout is the first "climb". There was a little shifting for position.  Tyler Loewens got to the front and was pulling.  I was right behind him.  I did not wish to pull.  In fact, when I looked back, there was nobody behind me.  The group was sitting about 5 yards back.  

Screw that.  I stopped pedaling and Tyler went up the road a ways until somebody from his team got his attention.  He saw what was happening and slowed back into the group.  Once we were all back together, Greg Hagele kind of jumped.  He got about a 15 foot gap, then Jakob moved into action, grabbing his wheel.  The rest of us didn't take it seriously and slowly got back with them where we all stayed a happy little group for the next 5 minutes.

Eventually, we turned right toward the east and had a cross wind from the left (North).  I was three or four back, but I was on the left side (in the wind).  I was looking around for an opportunity to get inside (the book warns about this sort of thing).  Finally, I saw a spot and took it, nice and comfy along the edge of the road.

As I was settling in for a nice happy group ride and thinking about flowers and bunnies and stuff.  The same Kaos Rider from before (Hagale) attacked.  This time hard.  Again, Jakob Wilson covered the move.  They were moving away from us quickly.  I saw another Kaos guy look at a GSV guy and kind of shrug.  I was surprised.  I didn't expect the members of these teams to give up the race so soon. Looking back on it, they probably all knew they had their best guy out there.  They were happy to go easy and sprint for third place later on.  That's when my team manager yelled into my headset, "Get the fuck in that breakaway! Allez, Allez!"

The Bunnies and flowers would have to wait.  I looked down at ol' Bessie (I don't really call my bike that), tapped her gently on the top tube (not really), and asked her for all the speed she could muster.  I had about 10 yards to bridge and I didn't want to pull anybody with me.

So I stood up and sprinted away, hoping like hell I wasn't dragging the rest of the pack.  I did expect at least Travis or Rich Anderson to have hitched a ride.  But no.

When I was about 10 feet from Jakob's wheel, I wasn't sure I would be able to grab it.  I was beginning to get winded.  Then Greg accelerated a little more.

Thankfully I got on as Greg let Jakob pull for a moment.  When I went by Jakob to do my turn, I said something queer like, "Let's do this!"  because at that time, I believed we'd be reeled in if we didn't all work together.

He nodded and we began to work beautifully together.  Until 18 seconds later when Greg got to the front again and just hammered.  Jakob and I basically just hung on from that point on.  Greg didn't want to work together.  We were ok with that.  In the cross wind, he'd ride so we'd get the minimum benefit of the draft.

After about 3 or 4 minutes, I dared to look back at the main pack.  I thought they'd be rolling right up to us.

They were not in sight.  We had turned to the South and were on the dam with a tailwind.

Actually, I never saw the main group again during the race.  I was positively giddy about that.  Paul Sherwen kept saying "Out of sight, out of mind."  I kept saying to Jakob, "This is so cool. They are not going to catch us."

On the second lap and going north into the wind up the hill, Greg went hard.  I thought I might get dropped.

He did the same on the third (final) lap.  Then finally, when we were getting to the top of the climb going east, Jakob, who was on Greg's wheel, let a gap open up.  I went around Jakob and came close to getting on Greg's wheel, but could not.  When I looked back, Jakob had popped.

I time trialed as best I could to keep Jakob away.  All day, I had been thinking the worst I could do was third.  Now it looked like second was the worst (and best) I could do.

When I approached the finish, it was so sweet to hear Lefler say my name (pronouncing it correctly and everything) and that I was coming in for second place.  It was also awesome that he did not joke around when he said it.  I would have been cool with it if he'd been like "What's this?  Did Hinsley skip a lap or something?"  Since last time I was in a race he was announcing was a cross race.  I tripped over a barrier and fell face down into the mud.  Lefler said, "Hinsley.  Anything to get attention."  He pronounced my name correctly that day too.

The next awesome thing was seeing that big old goofy grin of Munson's when I finished.  I realized having a friend watch it happen was neat.

When Jakob came in and we were chatting about the day, he said, "I thought you'd drift back to me once you got dropped."

I might have if I hadn't lost to him on that unofficial hill climb race last fall.  I guess that was another thing I learned.

Thursday Morning Extra: Sorry there was no Wednesday Extra

I was going to talk about the one time I decided to run a 5K race on the keystone trail.  At one time, I wanted to get a 50 minute seeded pass for the Corporate Cup.  I thought If I could run a 5K in 25 minutes or less, that would be a good first step.  I "trained" over the winter almost exclusively on U.P. treadmills.  I'd run outside occasionally, but  running is just a horrible thing.  Long distance, slow running is exactly what we (humans) are evolved to do according to people who sit around all day and think about this stuff.  So even though I hate it, I thought I'd give it a try.  This was what my ancestors had worn out cattle for or something, so ...

It was a St Patrick's day sort of a race thing.  There was food and beer at the finish line.  Well - there was food and beer at the finish line while it lasted - which was considerably less than 25 minutes.

Anywho's, Coach Barry was also in the race.  After he finished the race and knowing my goal, he kindly sauntered on back to where I was to pace me to the finish.

This might have been the very first BCM Pep Talk I ever got.  He was saying things like, "See that guy up there.  He's not going to finish in under 25 minutes.  You know what that means?  You're going to pass him.  Or you're going to experience 100% failure.  Plus, they're almost out of beer."

Well thanks to Coach Barry, I had something like 45 seconds to spare when I finished.  I limped over to the keg for a nice red plastic cup full of warm Bud Light foam.

Then I never ran again.

Thanks again Barry.

Tuesday Extra: My Hill Climb Race Report

Well it wasn't actually, technically a sanctioned race or anything.  It was a party the fine folks over at GSV put on annually.  I'm not sure how it works because the idea was to ride around and climb some local hills and decide the winner based on their Strava times up those hills.  The ride ended up at the top of Hummel park where there were burgers and all kinds of refreshments being served.

Before the "race" started, I heard someone say, "What's the prize for winning?"

I thought this was funny because there was no entry fee and food and drink at the end of the ride.

But the appropriate answer came back: "Ten thousand dollars."

Now I'm sure if you took a cross section of just about any group of people and put their I.Q.s up against your average group of cyclists, you'd see that there's not a lot of difference.  No one group is necessarily more intelligent than any other.

Wait - did I just say "I'm sure"?  Maybe I used to be, but not anymore.  Cyclists are stupid.

There was some mumbling along the way about that huge prize.  Some people actually believed it.  Or maybe they were just pretending to believe it to try to make me believe it.  Yeah - I'd rather think that way.

Of the people there at this Sunday morning group ride, most of the smart money was on whipper-snapper Grant Rotunda to take top honors (I'm still not convinced Rotunda is a real name - it is, however, awesome).  Others had people like Jakob Wilson and yours truly as potential favorites.

I know this because more than one person rode up to me at various points in the ride to encourage me to go for the $10,000.  Really.  I'm not lying at all.  They really did.  I would say - there is no money, but I will go for a hamburger.  Then they'd say something like - "no, the guy said ..."

Anyway, after some hills, Grant Rotunda, who was still sticking to that name, and I had a gap on the rest of the people.  Grant pulled most of the way.  The next big climb was called Llama Hill because there used to be Llamas or Alpacas or something in the yard at the top of the hill.  I don't know.  Maybe they're still there, but I haven't seen them in a while.  Just before the hill, the main group caught up to Grant and me.

At the time, I had the Strava KOM on that climb.  While we were going up the first section of the climb, Grant's chain fell off.  I felt so sorry for him, I attacked.  Jakob was right behind me.  Then he bolted up the hill and I could not keep with him.  He took my Strava KOM in the process.

After the climb, I caught up to Jakob and we worked together toward the finish - The dreaded north side Hummel climb.  While we were on a long flat section toward the park entrance, Jakob looked back and saw that Grant was behind us with the main group farther behind him.  He said we should sit up and wait.  I agreed because Grant had done most of the work and had had some misfortune.

On the last climb, I decided I was happy with 3rd and pedaled "easy" up the hill.  I had already been dropped earlier on Llama hill by Jakob. Grant was flying up Hummel.  I was tired, so.

That was my second mistake.

Had Jakob and I continued to keep Grant away (we might not have been able to - but we should have tried)- I could have assured myself 2nd place.

While I was taking it easy up the Hummel climb, I was gaining on Jakob.  Fast.  Not fast enough to catch him, but I believe he was cooked from his effort up Llama hill.  I should have given it all to beat him on that last climb.  But I didn't.

So Grant got the $10,000.

But - I had my first non time trial podium.  And even though it wasn't an actual race and some of the contestants were children, I was still happy with the result.

P.S.  I shouldn't have to say this, but I think I need to.  10 seconds ago when I said "Grant got the $10,000."  I was kidding.  There was no money.  The burgers were delicious, though.

Monday Extra: My road race report.

Since everybody wants to read about the details of the lower category local area road races, I thought I should report on mine.

I was pretty sure I was about roughly as good as a cat 3 rider and after a couple of races in the cat 5s, I'd prove that I should just be placed up in the cat 3s.  I didn't know anything about upgrades.  I figured they probably just looked at you or something and they could tell.

There had been a crit or something already that season.  I don't remember where it was, but newcomer, cat 5 Jon Randell won it.  I had never met Jon, but his name sounded to me like he was probably pretty fat.  I was so sad that I hadn't signed up for that race because I was pretty sure I would have won and this Jon Randell character would have had to settle for second place where he deserved.  Stupid fatass I'd never met.

A couple of weeks later, there was another race I didn't do (this was in the Armstrong days.  There were lots of races without beer handups).  Jon Randell won that one.  Nebraska cycling quoted him, "That was fun.  You guys do this every year?" or something.  I thought, "It won't be so fun when I'm kicking your fat ass, Randell.  Why don't you just give up now and go race clydesdale in mountain biking?"

That was it.  I had to race.  I had already placed pretty high in RAGBRAI the year before and then bought a new LeMond Zurich with the fancy integrated brake shifter things.  I had raced the Corporate Cycling Challenge Super Serious Race on it and was pretty happy with my performance there.  There was the one guy riding on a mountain bike with jean shorts who dropped me like I was standing still, but otherwise I figured I was the fastest guy out there (at the Corporate Cycling Challenge Super Serious Race) that day.

So the first road race I signed up for was held at Branched Oaks.  It was 2 laps around the lake.  It was a calm day.  Ok, I can't keep a straight face.  It's never a calm day at the lake.

I looked around for a fat guy in an Athletic Junction Jersey, but only saw Munson and a shorter athletic looking guy.  Uh oh.

Jon Randell was nowhere near as fat as his name made him sound.

So the 18 or so cat 5 racers took off down from Lieber's point to the start of the actual racing.  As we turned onto the road heading north to make the first ascent, I was dropped.  It took 9:23 seconds for me to get dropped.  About 8 minutes of that were neutral rollout.

I rode solo  for those 2 laps as hard as I could around the course for about 2 hours (I finished 3 laps quicker Saturday).  I was too dumb to know at the time that I would not catch the group that had dropped me.  I finished.  Second to last place (of the finishers).  People said something about "at least you finished" but I didn't feel too good about it.  Nobody seemed to think I should upgrade to Cat 3 either.

I had some work to do if I was going to win my next race.  Especially after Randell had instantly lost all that weight in my mind.

Changing the world for a day

Well, not really the world.  Maybe the city.  Yeah, changing the city for a day.  Last Thursday a cyclist in the Omaha area was killed.  His name was Jim Johnston.  I didn't know him.  The details are here.

If you don't want to read it, the only thing I want to point out is that he was on the shoulder of the road when a car veered into the wrong lane and into the shoulder on the opposite side of the road it was supposed to be on and hit Mr. Johnston.

The driver was an 82 year old woman.

I have no comments directly about this tragedy.  I think of it this way: Shit happens.

There has been a lot of discussion about right and wrong.  About what the laws should be.  About how something needs to change.  About staying safe, etc.

Tempers flare and it's stupid.

When I go out for a ride, there is rarely an occasion where at least one motorist doesn't behave toward me with some sort of aggression.  It is usually just once or twice a ride.  So one or two cars out of the many hundred that go by is a small percentage.  I don't like it.  I don't think anybody should behave that way.  But surprisingly, I think the percentage of idiots driving is way higher than the percentage of motorists who put me into some kind of real danger.

I make mistakes too.  I've made several.  A moment of inattentiveness and I put myself right into danger, making the motorist react to not kill me.  And so far, the motorists have succeeded in not killing me 100% of the time.

I think cycling is safe.  I'm all for making improvements. Increasing safety and awareness and all of that.  But I don't see it as too dangerous.  You'd have to know me to know what a chicken I am.  If I ride around out there on the roads, it can't be that dangerous.  Yes - I could get killed.  Anyone could at any time.  But life isn't really about trying not to get killed.

The day after Jim Johnston was killed, I was riding to work when a jogger said "Be safe" as I passed.  I did not say what I was thinking.  I said, "Thank you."

Then I imagined that the jogger felt like she had lifted some burden from my heart - in light of the recent tragedy.  Her comment was some sort of show of solidarity.  She possibly envisioned me riding along, overcome by the emotion of her powerful advice, welling up with tears and rolling right out onto Dodge street to get splattered.

No - what I was thinking was that Johnston was "being safe."  Of course that doesn't mean I should take risks.  But "be safe" isn't enough when "shit happens."

On my ride home from work that day, I was stopped at a light.  A driver in an SUV got my attention and said, "Be Safe."

I said, "Thank you."

Then he said, "I read about that guy.  It was terrible."

I said, "And he was being safe"

He said, "But you've gotta look out for you."

Not in the mood for an argument, I said something like "I know, right?"

After I got home and was telling Jill about these incidents, she said, "Maybe this tragedy will make people think a little bit about the way they drive around bikers."

I understand that thinking.  But we've all seen accidents like this before.  After a little while, everybody forgets about it and the hostility returns to normal levels.

"Nothing will change,"  I said.  "People will just do what they've always done and I'll try to stay out of their way."

Thankfully, we do have a little reprieve from the same old shit until the memory of Jim Johnston fades from the community's consciousness.

In fact, just 2 days after his tragic death, I was heading out to "Joe Friel my ass up a shit-ton of hills"*.  It was a frosty Saturday morning.  I got to a 4-way stop before the motorist to my left.  He was slowing, so I went ahead.  I had the right of way.  He was not taking the same road as me.  He was not delayed.  He didn't quite come to a complete stop, but rolled and revved as if to scare me.  I'm pretty sure he was thinking I should have let him go first for some reason.

He rolled down his window and shouted "I hope you die, fag!"

Had Jim Johnston's accident not happened, I don't think death would have been on the insult table.

I thought - I guess Jill was right.  People have changed.  Normally, He would just have said, "Get off the road, fag!"  not even talking about his wish for me to be dead.

I don't believe he really hopes I die.  Maybe he does.  Maybe whenever he perceives that his life has somehow been interrupted, he wants the source of that interruption to not exist anymore.

Ultimately he will get his wish.  I will die.  Everybody does.  Since he didn't provide a timeline, I can only assume he meant he hopes I eventually die.  He hopes I won't just go on living forever like some sort of immortal homosexual.

But here's the truth.  I hope he dies, too.  Actually, I hope he's already dead.  And I hope it was painful and he suffered for hours.  Not only that, I don't care anything about his personal life or if he loves or is loved.  I just want him dead and with good reason.  He said something mean to me.  Waah.

Fuckin' idiots.

~~

* Joe Friel my ass up a shit-ton of hills:  Joe Friel is the writer of  The Cyclist's Training Bible.  As far as I know, it is the most trusted source for how to train properly.  It comes with all kinds of terms and training programs that I just have never been able to make any sense out of.  I get confused when I try to follow anything he says to do.  But I want to seem legit to my collegues, so I bluff.  I just invoke his name like I'm doing something specific.  So if it's a hilly ride, I say "Friel says hills."  If it's a commute, "Friel says I need to carry about 20 lbs. on my back today," etc.

The Slice

Note:  Earlier this week, a friend pointed out that last week's post was problematic in terms of my "style."  The complaint was that the post had a beginning, middle and logical end.  It had plot, form and blah blah blah.  I aim to correct that here, and hope that sort of thing does not happen in future posts.  I apologize for last week.  Here you go:


Not even to the first tee yet, and navigating the carts was already a challenge.  Another day in paradise for The Wallington Foursome.

Ed Wallington, former big fancy CEO was retired on the strength of a lifetime of severance packages.  He was the leader of the four vacationing executives.  Their seven day golf tour took place every February.  It was nice to get away from all the boring lounging around at the country club.  

They'd been coming to this island resort for 5 years now.  It was their favorite.

Joe Sharpe was Ed's best pal and Ed's wary golf cart passenger.

"You got this, Ed?"  Joe laughed, hanging on to the roof handle as Ed swerved, knocking over a bucket of driving range balls.  

"I'm fine.  The day I can't handle a couple Bloody Marys ..."

"Here's your turn, Ed,"  Joe said, just in time for Ed to miss the turn, over-correct,  and sideswipe the sign pointing the way to the tee box.

Driving the cart behind them was Ed's half brother Rocky with Ed's son, Eddy, the 53 year old "semi-retired" heir to Ed's fortune.    

"Hey uncle Rock - looks like dad's already wasted," Eddy said, hoping.  The boy had never beaten his dad.  He'd come close, but the old man had a way of intimidating Eddy into choking away the lead.  But with Dad already hammered, Eddy felt good about his chances.  

"I wouldn't get my hopes up, Jr.  Your old man's a cagey son-of-a-bitch.  He always seems to "miraculously" sober up when there's a buck on the line.  You can't count him out."

By "a buck", Rocky meant "a thousand bucks."  That was the price to play each hole as a member of the Wallington Foursome.  This was Eddy's first year.  The previous regular, "Fat Bill," was unable to make it due to a scheduling conflict with mortality.

Winner of the hole takes $1000 from each of the others.  Ties are carried over and so on.

The first $1000 was wagered on the tee flip.  The foursome stood in a circle while one of them tossed a tee into the air to land at their feet.  Whoever the tee pointed to got the honors and won the first $3000.

It was usually Ed for some reason and today was no exception.

"This must be my lucky day. Again,"  said Ed, as he collected the cash from his grumbling buddies.  He stumbled over to the cart and grabbed his 3-wood.  Hole #1 is long par 3, slightly dogleg left with a beautiful cliff side view of the ocean on the right.

"Dad - are you sure you're ok?"  Eddy had seen his dad drunk many times.  He'd never seen him so red in the face or out of breath.  Maybe age was finally getting to the old man.  Or maybe it was as uncle Rocky said, some kind of ruse.

"You know goddamn well - I'm fine," shouted Ed.  Then, pausing momentarily to catch his breath,  "After I drive this green, You're gonna wish your little snot nose was as alright as mine!"

This brought chuckles from Joe and Rock.  Eddy crossed his arms and stared at his dad.  He hated being called "snot nose."  Just another way the old man could get under his skin.  

Ed approached the tee box with a drunken air of confidence.  He tossed his cigar to the ground and bent over to pluck a few blades of grass, lift them high and let them fall to determine the speed and direction of the breeze.  A slight blowing from the left was exactly what Ed hoped for.  He nodded with satisfaction.  Ed's swing fault caused a slight hook that was perfect for this hole.  He knew the others all tended to fade or slice.  It would be much more challenging for them to get anywhere near the green.

Ed addressed the ball and began to swing but stopped.  A tightening in his chest.  Probably nothing.  Maybe slow down on the drinking for a couple of holes.  He took a moment to recover as Eddy looked over to each of the others to see if he could detect any concern.  They nodded to Eddy to assure the kid the old man was fine.

When he felt ok to continue, Ed took a mammoth swing at the ball.  He knew as his hips thrust toward the target, this was going to be a monster.  Then as his lax arms followed the path his professionally trained body had carved out, a spiky steel clamp clenched his chest.  He lost composure and his hands lost feeling.

The last thing he saw was his Titlist Pro V1 slicing wickedly over the ocean side cliff and his 3-wood tumbling after it, bouncing end over end across the right rough and over the edge of the cliff.

Raucous laughter was immediately followed by shouts and a bunch of fat old executive assholes mourning the loss of their dear, dear friend.  Ed Wallington was dead of a massive coronary event at the age of 78.

Eddy's earlier desire to beat his dad was replaced with guilt so powerful, he wouldn't golf again until later that day. 

~~~

"Wake up, bum.  Hey Nate buddy.  Wake up.  You won the lottery again!"

Nate Keeler was also retired.  Nate Keeler also drank in the morning.  Not Bloody Marys, though. Usually a rum based drink with some citrus in it "for Vitamin C".  Also, Nate didn't golf. He did, however,  live next to a golf course.

Nate did his drinking exclusively at "The Slice."  A great little bar and pizza joint situated right on the beach and backing up against the bottom of the cliff that plateaued  above at the first tee of the island resort golf course.  A long par 3, slightly dogleg left.

It was also Nate Keeler's lucky day.  For the third time since he'd started coming to "The Slice" he'd hit "The Lottery," a daily promotion at the restaurant.  "Get Balled or Get Screwed!"  was the subtitle/slogan of the Bar/Restaurant.

Nate always sat outside in his lucky chair at his lucky table.  The Lottery prize was that Louis would cover your ticket.  Free food and drink for the day.  Louis hated it when Nate won because Nate was Louis's thirstiest customer.

Louis also feared for Nate's health.  Not so much his liver as his head.  Sure, Nate drank way too much liquor, but as a result of his insistence to go for the "free lunch," Nate had already suffered a concussion and a hairline fracture to his left radial bone.

This third time, Louis wasn't sure Nate was going to wake up at all.

This was also the first time Louis had seen it happen.  He was sitting with Nate.  Nate was eating a slice of Louis's world famous breakfast pizza and washing it down with a double Captain and O.J.  when it happened.

"So what's on the agenda today Nate.  Drinking perhaps?  A little surfing later on?"

"You better believe it, Ramrod!"  Nate always called Louis 'Ramrod.'  Nobody knew why.

"I'm gonna get my check today, get the board outta h..."  Konk!

Louis, who'd been barely listening, happened to glance up at Nate just in time to see a nice new Titleist Pro V1 bounce off the side of Nate's head.  Louis flinched.  Nate stopped chewing, dropped his slice of pizza and slammed his head on the table before falling to the ground.

And that was how you win the lottery.  Wayward golf balls regularly pelted Louis's property.  Most folks had the sense to eat on the other side of a net Louis had put up.  But for the daring, if a ball hit you or your table, your bill was on the house.  This is why Nate kept coming back.

"How long was I out this time,"  Nate said as he sat up to his elbows and lifted a hand to rub the knot already forming on his skull.

"I have it at 12 minutes.  A new record for you.  Listen Nate, you gotta stop ..."

"Louis, if you really cared, you'd just give me my food and drink without making me get nailed with golf balls."

"That's true, Nate."  Louis said as he went back inside to clean up some dishes.

Nate then looked up toward the direction of the first tee box.  It could not be seen from his vantage point.  He tipped his glass to the unseen golfer in thanks for the free food and drink.  "May your luck be as good as mine today,"  Nate wished the late Ed Wallington.

Fast Food Psycho

Roughly once a week, I get fast food for breakfast.  Chick-fil-a is the only place I go. The Magnificent Spicy Chicken Breakfast Burrito is the only thing I get.

I dine in.  I don't drive-thru.  I take a book to read so I can enjoy my Magnificent Spicy Chicken Breakfast Burrito while I read.

By the way, It's just called "Spicy Chicken Breakfast Burrito" but it is magnificent.

There is rarely anyone else at Chick-fil-a in the morning.  If there is, it is this one Christian family.  No kidding. They have a minivan and 6 kids.  They are solemn.  They pray over their food.  All 8 of them eat their breakfast in silence.

It makes me happy that Chick-fil-a sticks to its ultra conservative Christian ideals so I can enjoy my Magnificent Spicy Chicken Breakfast Burrito and read my book in monasterial calm.

 At McDonald's I'd surely have to contend with the hullabaloo of all the little sinner boys and girls.  Oh yeah - and McDonald's food is shit.    

But this morning I knew something at Chick-fil-a was amiss.  I drove into the parking lot and saw half a dozen cars waiting at the drive-thru.  I would never expect more than 2.  So either there was a problem or the secret is out on the Magnificent Spicy Chicken Breakfast Burrito.

Also, there was a car parked in the lot.  Unusual.   It wasn't the Christian minivan.

I stopped my car, took a deep breath, and considered skipping breakfast.  I decided that since I had my book, I could wait for my food while they sorted out whatever their problem was.

I just about changed my mind when I set foot inside.  It was all wrong.

There were no employees in sight.  Most days, a cheery cashier is at my beck and call the instant I enter, eager to wish me a "blessed day."

I stood there assessing the scene.  In front of the cash register was a half empty soda cup with a chewed up straw sticking out of a cracked plastic lid.  The only person in sight was a customer.  He was on the same side of the counter as me, but at the far end.  He was the cup's owner.

No employee came to take my order.  I heard them in the kitchen. They were not paying any attention to me or the line of cars at the drive-thru.  There was arguing.  Panic maybe.

I approached the register to get somebody's attention.  As I did, the man at the end of the counter bolted toward the soda cup.  I figured he was going to move it so I could stand at the register.  He looked at me and I said, "Morning," but he did not reply.  He walked up to the cup, left it there and walked back to the other end.

The message was clear.  Nobody orders until I get my food.  And stay away from my cup.  That's my cup.

Then Lorna came out from the back.  Lorna works there.  I didn't know her name was Lorna until she walked toward the register to take my order.  Before she got there Dave said, "Hey Lorna.  You know what I think would be good on that burrito?  Two slices of tomato.  I've never had it that way before, but I think with all the other things you're adding, tomatoes would make it perfect."

I didn't know his name was Dave until Lorna said in a voice barely above a whisper, "Yes Dave.  That is an excellent idea."

She kept a wary eye on Dave as she backed through the kitchen door to explain Dave's latest amendment.  Dave gave me an angry look and began pacing from his soda cup to the far end of the counter.  He was clenching and releasing his hands as he paced.

At last Lorna came out and told Dave that if he'd kindly have a seat, she could bring his special order out to him just as soon as it was ready.

Dave paused.  He squinted at me, then glanced at his cup, then at Lorna.  Lorna smiled.  Her eyebrows so high, it had to be some kind of trick with mirrors.

Dave acquiesced, grabbed his cup, throwing me a warning glance as he passed by and stomped off to a table somewhere behind me.

Then Lorna took my order.  I noticed that the line of cars was now moving.  Things seemed to be getting back to normal.

I sat down to read while I waited for my Magnificent Spicy Chicken Breakfast Burrito.  But I couldn't concentrate. I looked up to see Dave staring at me.  A snarled lip.  I don't know what his problem was, but I turned my back to him and was sort of able to begin reading.

About 5 seconds later, Lorna came out with a tray.  I didn't pay any attention, because surely this was the food Dave had been waiting for for God knows how long.  The breakfast to end all breakfasts, stop a line of cars and turn poor old Dave into a seething madman.

Nope.  It was for me.  I didn't dare look back at Dave.

It was embarrassing, but certainly not my fault.  Clearly, Dave had a gripe, but with Lorna, not me, right?

I flipped my foil wrapped burrito over to peel off the sticker.  Hmm.  That's weird.  Normally, the sticker says "spicy."  This one said "special"

I think you can see where this is headed.

Oblivious, I took a huge bite out of the burrito and was surprised to find that

1) The Chicken was not spicy
2) There were lots of crazy ingredients in this burrito, including 2 slices of tomato
3) It was the most delicious breakfast burrito in the whole wide world.

As I was enjoying my first bite of Dave's Burrito, Lorna came up with a plain old boring Spicy Chicken Breakfast Burrito.  She apologized to me, told me to keep both burritos and to have a blessed day.

This put me in such an awkward position I was forced to stand up, walk over to Dave and stab him  in the throat with a plastic butter knife.

I then went on a rampage and slaughtered everyone in the Chick-fil-a while the Christian minivan family praised the lord that even though a flat tire prevented them from their beloved Chick-fil-a today, father had skillfully repaired the flat and they were up and running again.  Chick-fil-a could wait until tomorrow.

And that's the story of the Fast Food Psycho.