Friday Extra: KOM Cops

So I haven't been out riding much lately.  I've been injured.  I picked it back up Wednesday, but I'm still kind of nursing the injury.  I don't want to get myself back into the same place I was a couple of weeks ago.

I like recording my info on Strava.  When I first got excited about Strava, I would look for potential KOMs to beat based on their location and the wind direction.  I know it's silly, but I got into pretty decent shape trying to get KOMs.

Then I got kind of tired of the idea.  I will not go out of my way anymore.  Usually if I get a KOM now, it's because Spence isn't on Strava.  I'll go for a group ride and hang on for dear life to Spence's wheel for a while.  When I get home and upload to Strava, I'll see that I have a whole bunch of new KOMs I didn't know existed.  KOMs that would be Spence's if he were on Strava.

But once in a great while, there will be one around my neighborhood that I want to get.  Usually at the end of a ride if I'm feeling froggy, I will give it a go.  When somebody beats one of mine in my neighborhood, I take note and next time I'm in the area, I try to beat it.  Usually, I don't.  But every once in a while ...

Anyway, Strava sent me this note this morning:

Uh oh!  My first thought was "So what.  That's a lame KOM anyway.  It's a 22 second effort.  Well, 18 seconds now.  Golly.  He beat me by 4 seconds.  That's pretty good.   That's a tall order.  Who is this guy?

Holy Effin Ess!!!

At one point he was cruising up Dodge street at 49 MPH!  That's moving.  He shattered a bunch of KOMs so in my jealously, I cried foul and flagged the ride.

Now when you flag a ride on Strava, they require an explanation.  I said, "It's no fair.  He's too fast."

The real reason Barry is disenchanted with the Corporate cup

They used to have delicious pancakes.

Effin Literature, Cotton

Whylom as olde stories tellen us,
Ther was a duk that highte Theseus;
Of Athenes he was lord and governour,
And in his tyme swich a conquerour
That gretter was ther noon under the sonne.

-- Geoffrey Chaucer, The Knightes Tale.

I almost always have a book I'm reading.  It comes in handy while I'm drinking morning coffee or for the 2 minutes between when I comfy cozy into bed and doze off.

It takes me a while to read a book.  I generally don't read while there's a perfectly good television at my disposal.

But sometimes I see a movie that I like so much that I decide to read the book that inspired it. The book is almost always way better than the movie, so I figure if I like the movie, I'll love the book.

The problem with this is that if you've already seen the movie version, it is hard to get the actors out of your mind when you read the book.  It is way better to read the book first.

I saw Fight Club before I read the book.  The great thing about Fight Club (the movie) is that it is so faithful to the book that imagining Ed Norton/Brad Pitt is not a problem.  It still happened, but it didn't harm the story at all.

Interview with a Vampire, on the other hand was so unbelievably horribly cast that even though I saw the movie first and ended up reading the first 5 or so vampire books, every time I thought of Tom Cruise as Lestat, it made me sad.  Like when you frown and stuff.

Lestat was blonde and girly like.  Tom Cruise is a big dork.  See?  Bad casting.

Before I finish up tonight's entry, I will mention that I am invoking the original agreement.  Any post is acceptable.

I have nothing to say.

Sometimes, the movie is better than the book.  There is one movie in particular that is not only better than the book.  It is better than the sum of all works by the author.  And it's not even that great a movie.  It's just a really bad writer.  Of course by now you must've guessed, I'm picking on Geoffrey Chaucer.

A few weeks ago, I was at our bookshelf, looking for something to read when I came across a little red paperback called "The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer"

Now I'm no 14th century expert or anything, but I know who Geoffrey Chaucer was.  I mean when I think about it, I'm surprised how much I know about him.

For instance, did you know that he had a terrible gambling problem?

Yep.  Totally true.

Most of what I know about Chaucer comes from the 2001 docudramedy, movie, "A Knight's Tale"

So when I saw that we actually owned a copy of Chaucer's work from that time, I was eager to start reading.  I figured it might be a little boring or something, but it'd be pretty cool to see how close the movie was to the original.

Yeah - so that passage at the top of this post is the first sentence or stanza or whatever the hell it's called from Geoffrey Chaucer's "THE KNIGHTES TALE"

After reading that, I kind of scanned through the book, looking for the name William Thatcher.  Or the part where Chaucer introduced the young Knight in the style of Michael Buffer.

But no.  Just a bunch of misspellings and crazy talk.

In conclusion, "A Knight's Tale" the movie is pretty good.  The original book sucks.

And that's why they make you read that shit at school.

One more thing.  That ridiculous sentence at the beginning of this post?  Thankfully the edition of the book I have, has all of the corrections along side it.  I guess when Chaucer turned in the assignment, they made him go back time and time again until all the spelling and grammar was fixed.

I'm pretty sure his homework was returned to him like this:
















But after he got it all fixed up, it said:

Once upon a time, as ancient stories tell us,
there was a duke who was named Theseus,
He was lord and ruler of Athens,
and such a conqueror in his day
that there was no greater under the sun.

I'm sure these corrections earned little Chaucer a gold star and everything, but it's still nothing Heath Ledger would have signed on for.  Rawr!! I mean, Rest in peace, Heath.

I like how it looks like the original script from Chaucer is on the inside of a piece of paper that says "OfficeMax" on it.  That's just eerie.

Friday Extra: The Waiting Room

The whole visit to the chiropractor was pretty much doomed before I ever got hooked up to the L. Ron Hubbard devices during my extensive magic evaluation process.

Before I was called in, I sat for about 20 minutes in the reception area.  I now have a smart phone, but I had left it in the car so my only option for amusement while I waited was "looking around."

There was a television with a bunch of healthy living facts.  These were still photos that would cycle through with all kinds of information.

The main thing seemed to be the importance of drinking water.  That's fair.  But the amount they said you should drink.  No way.  It said people need to drink 1.5 ounces of water per pound of weight per day.

My thought was if I weighed 150 lbs, I would need to drink nearly 2 gallons of water a day by their formula. Even if they were talking about Kilograms of weight, that's still about a gallon of water a day.  Then came the punchline:  Even more if you exercise.

So - I weigh about 190.  I need a baseline of 285 ounces (2.23 Gallons) of water a day, plus more if I go for a ride?

No - because another infopic pointed this out: "Don't like exercising?  Do something fun instead.  Go for a bike ride.  You'll get some of the same benefits as you would if you did real exercise."

Seriously.  It said that bike riding isn't exercise.

So - this place was losing points with me in a big hurry.  After watching the info screen for a while, I looked to the bookshelf in the corner for some entertainment.

About every other book had a title along the lines of "The Vaccination Lie" or "Immunization Facts."

Oh boy.  What the hell is this place?

It was with the thought that I was visiting a bunch of harmonic convergence hippies that they called me in to the office where they applied their scientific healing stones to my spine.

I remain skeptical of the value of chiropractors.

Making a Believer

Those are the ones that will infect your soul, curve your spine and keep the country from winning the war  -- George Carlin

About 17 days ago, I became slightly injured.  I'm not exactly sure how it happened.  Jack was doing Devo Dirt Militia cyclocross training and I was off in a corner trying to work on dismounts/remounts.  

After I was done, there was a slight pain in my shoulder.  No biggie, I thought.  Just a little soreness.

I rode a couple of times that week (it rained a lot) and the injury never quite went away.

Labor day weekend was a fantastic 3 days of riding.  Great weather after all the rain we'd been having.  I went on 3 long group rides.  With each one, my shoulder got worse.  The pain became a constant problem.

By Monday, I was favoring my left arm on the way to the ride.  I should just go home, I thought. Then I thought, Ah, it'll probably loosen up.  My first instinct was the correct one.

The pain got worse as the 75 mile ride continued.

I really did some damage to it. Whew.  I'm pretty stupid.

I haven't been on a bike since.  Well, just once to ride a couple miles to a bar that first Friday.  Even that was painful.  Other than that, it's been 10 days off the bike.

Constant pain and tingling in my fingers kept me from exercising.  I figured I'd wait it out until it got better, but it wasn't getting any better.

I had a similar issue (same thing actually, just not as bad) about 18 months ago.  I went to the doctor and was told I could wait it out.  I was able to ride through that one though.

I figured if I went to the doctor, I'd hear the same thing or surgery.

A friend of mine swears by the chiropractor.  I've never been a fan.  Maybe it works for some, but generally not for me.

In this case though, I was desperate.  I have to get back on the bike.  So I went to my friend's chiropractor to see what he'd say.

My problem with chiropractors is it seems to me that people who go to them just end up going in for adjustments  forever.  It seems like treatment for some lifelong condition, not healing an injury.

My friend explained this to the chiropractor before I showed up.  He said, "Don't try to get him for some long term deal.  He just wants his shoulder fixed."

The chiropractor said, "No problemo.  I'll give him a pop and get him on his way. And hey. Tell him the first one's on me."

Well, how could I turn that down?  If they can get me back on the bike, cool.  If not, nothing lost.

So I went.  I filled out a bunch of forms and they did an "evaluation."

I had to stick my fingers on some sensors for about 5 minutes to get my e-meter auditing or my midichlorian count or some shit.

After the measurement and some x-rays, I was sent on my way.  No bone cracking.  Just e-meters and x-rays.  For free.

I was told that the data would be evaluated by a team of trained auditors or whatever and that I should set an appointment for the next day when the healing would begin.  Also, that was the part that cost money.  Doh.

The next morning, I went back to the chiropractor where I learned that I might be the most disfigured human on the planet.  There is all kinds of stuff wrong with me. I wanted to object.  I have been examined by a real doctor recently and on several occasions. He didn't mention any of these grievous deformities.  He did lovingly call me Quasimodo once or twice though.

You say this all happened at cyclocross practice?

There were about 5 or 6 different aspects of my nervous system being evaluated that day.  The most disturbing of them was the revelation that because of my extremely malformed skeleton, my body cannot use energy nearly as efficiently as it should.

According to the quackometer test, I use 64% more energy than a healthy person to perform any task.

Obviously, my first thought was that if they fixed me, I might have to eat less to maintain my weight.  Unacceptable.

I heard nothing after that.  I knew it was complete bullshit.  What if it wasn't though?  I'm currently at 36% normal human energy efficiency.  When I get to maximal, I'm going to be yelling at cars to get on the sidewalk!

Anyway, the guy cracked my back and told me what he needed to do to get me healthy.

Remember, 2 weeks ago - I was completely healthy.  I hurt my shoulder,  I needed it fixed.

The plan back to health for me as suggested by the chiropractor:  14 months at $200 a month.  Friend prices, Of course.

What a bargain.

Later that day, when my friend (the one who likes the chiropractor) was doing the old "I told you not to try to sell him a plan" dance at the chiropractor's office - the chiropractor said, "Oh just the shoulder?  Yeah, I can fix the shoulder.  Send him back in."

As the wise George W. Bush once said, "Fool me, can't get fooled again!"

So that was a huge waste of time.  My shoulder still hurt, my fingers were still tingling and I was still not riding my bike.

I was out of options so I asked myself "What would Brady do?"  I knew the answer from all of these.

So yeah.  Yesterday, I went to Mike Bartels, who performed some voodoo physical therapy on me and gave me some exercises to do.  Yesterday and today were the first time I've done them.

I did not expect a whole lot when I made the appointment.

Judging from the way I felt all day today, this was the way to go. I wish I'd done it a week ago.

Today was the first day in 17 days I had no pain in my shoulder.  There is still tingling in my fingers, but it is down about 70% from what it's been for the last 2 weeks.

The exercises I'm doing are grueling, but I can feel them doing their job.  I'm very happy.

So add me to the list of people saying, Go see a chiropractor right now.  It will change your life because your life will be "going to the chiropractor." Mike Bartels if you get some sort of nagging injury.  That guy knows his stuff.

The Time I had to go to the Principal's office.

I was called to the principal's office one time in my life.  It was the last semester of my Senior year.  I almost made it all the way through my school career without a face to face with any principal.  Almost.

Then when it happened I had no idea why.  I hadn't done anything wrong that I could have gotten caught for.  I was always discreet in my indiscretions.  I was not a good enough student to be praised for any sort of academic achievement.  I can guarantee you that when I started writing this post about 2 minutes ago, if you would have asked me, "Will the word 'flummoxed'  appear in this post twice?" I would have said, I don't believe I've ever used that word before, so it's a good chance you won't be seeing it tonight even once.

But walking that long mile to the principal's office, I was flummoxed.  I decided it must be some sort of recognition for being super-duper.  I knew I wasn't in any kind of trouble.  So I went in feeling pretty dandy.

I didn't know the principal at all.  I had never talked to him before.  To me at the time, he looked kind of like Darrin Stephens from Bewitched.  Not the cool first Darrin Stephens, but the dorky second Darrin Stephens.

Even though he looked dorky, I admired him.  He was the principal of a big high school.  He had the courage to do this with one of the worst possible names for a principal.  G. E. Moller.  First of all, you've got the "G. E."  then of course the last name that sounds like a tooth.  And if you don't know, the "G" stood for Gaylord.  Our Principal's name was Gaylord E. Moller.  Dr. Gaylord E. Moller to you.

Knowing that he ran a school with a name like "Gaylord", I was terrified of him.  He must be a total badass, I thought.

But again, I wasn't worried because I hadn't done anything wrong.

Waiting in the reception area, I saw a few students going in and out.  Most of them were surprised to see me.  I started to feel a little bit like a stud.  "Yeah, I'm pretty much a bad boy.  I'm in the principal's office.  Don't "F" with me, bitch!"

People were walking by outside and knocking on the window to wave to me.  All I could do is raise my hands in a "I have no idea" gesture.

Finally, I was called in.  I sat down in front of Dr. Moller.  He didn't look happy.  So much for the "super-duper" thing.  He was reading a 3X5 index card.  He finished. Removed his glasses and looked at me.

"Is this yours?" he asked as he slid the card across his desk.

To my horror, it was a card I had filled out at the beginning of the year.  I had indeed written what was on it.  I never gave it a second thought.  It was a stupid joke as far as I was concerned.

The first day of senior year at Omaha Central High school was a distant memory for me.  It had happened about six months before this visit to see Dr. Moller.

I was not in what I'd call a "jocular" mood that first day. Mostly because I would never use the word "jocular."  But I was feeling pretty damn froggy.

I was ready to get this year over with and be on my merry way to real life.  I hated school.  Especially high school.  To me, every year since kindergarten had gotten progressively worse.  No way I was going to college.  I could discern the pattern and I wanted no part of it.  Ironically, just about everything I hated about school was corrected in college.  But that's another story.

In homeroom of that first day of senior year, the "teacher" handed out 3X5 index cards.  We were instructed to write down our name and plans for after high school.  If we were going to college, we should say which one and what we plan to study.

For some reason, I didn't see this going anywhere.  I didn't know why they wanted to know (it had something to do with the graduation ceremony, so my response was not at all appropriate).

I had no intention of going to college.  I worked at Wendy's and figured that's what I'd be doing after high school.  No way I was putting "I'm going to work at Wendy's"

 So I wrote down something I thought was funny.  I'm going to repeat it here, but I want to say that I am embarrassed by it.  I wrote: I'm going to Millionaire school. I was going to go to Billionaire school but I couldn't afford the tuition.

Just now - typing this, I sighed heavily.  Probably not that different from the way Dr. Moller reacted when he read it 3 decades ago.

"You must've been in a pretty jocular mood that day,"  Dr. Moller yelled after making me read it to him.  Even after I tried to read it in my best funnyman voice.

I think if you were allowed to bring a drum kit into the principal's office, it would be nice.  A well-placed rim shot can do wonders.  I mean, it's pretty obvious from my Millionaire School joke ...  I know comedy.

Anyway.  In the end, I was forced to give the good Dr. a real answer. I considered saying, "I've been accepted to Harvard, but he would already know that I hadn't.  Millionaire school was more likely.  I was under the gun.  I still couldn't just say, "Work at Wendy's"  so I asked myself, what's an answer he will believe? What would a loser do?  I mean cooler than Wendy's, but still a loser.  Then inspiration struck.

I was looking at Dr. Moller who needed an answer right now.  In my mind, this answer was way funnier than the other one about Millionaire school, but I was pretty sure he'd believe it.

"I'm going into the Air Force," I finally admitted.  I was thinking - I would go into the coast guard but I can't afford the tuition.

My heart jumped for joy when I saw him accept that answer and edit my 3X5 card.  The idea of me joining the military was beyond absurd.  They got out of school and volunteered for a life of getting up even earlier.  No effing way.

Boy were my parents surprised at the graduation when they read of my plan in the program.

Anyway,  at graduation, when Dr. Moller called me up to receive my diploma, I said something to him that I hadn't said to anyone in the whole 3 years I went to Central.  Up until high school I had usually corrected everyone.  Then I just stopped at 10th grade.  I didn't care anymore.  But it somehow seemed important at graduation.

"It's pronounced 'Hinsley',"  I whispered to him as he handed over the sheepskin.

He laughed and spoke into the microphone -  "My apologies, Mr. Hinsley.  I guess you weren't in my office enough for me to know your name."

That one got a good laugh.

Good guy, that Dr. Moller.

Friday Extra: On Mike

Just a little tilt.  Too much and you look like a buffoon.  You don't just accidentally have your cap perfectly off-kilter.  I'd say it took me 6 months or so to get it just right.  Now, I never miss.

For the longest time I was tilting the cap to the right.  Rookie mistake.  Nobody wants to see a cap leaning to their left.  It's just wrong.  Once I realized I was looking at a mirror image of myself, the proper cap placement was a snap.

But Mike, I hear you ask, what's the big deal?  Two words.  "The Ladies."

Hey - it's a competitive world out there, no matter what anybody says.  It's mano a mano.  Dog eat squirrel.  Or whatever.  The guy who takes advantage of every opportunity will go home with the tail.

Take that creep Aidan Fuller for example.  Big shot quarterback.  "Giant Slayer."  Back when I was a kid, he was my idol.  Sure - he ruined my big brother's shot at the state championship.  Petey was never the same after that loss.  They all said he was the reason the Giants lost that year.  The team was supposed to destroy the Wolves.  No excuses.  Petey just choked the game away.

But still - I couldn't help but admire Fuller.  The procession of poon that guy was landing?  Whew!  "Aidan's Maidens" they called them.

Of course it was all handed to him.  What chick wouldn't be conned by the 2nd string QB of the underdog team. Then they squeak out the heroic win for the championship.  And to top that off, his dad had been killed a few years earlier trying to rescue a puppy.  Aidan Fuller had the back story that guaranteed a lifetime supply of top shelf beaver.  Lucky Bastard.

But now, I've got the cap.  I'm the boss.  And Aidan?  He's late for his shift again.  Crazy how things turn around.  Maybe if he gets here in the next 10 minutes or so, I won't fire his tired old ass.

Well, enough of my gabbing. The mirror here in the men's room confirms what I already knew.  You, Mike.  You're one dashing S.O.B.  Go get 'em, tiger!  Rawr!

~~

Mike finishes his pep talk to himself and scrapes his arm on the changing table as leaves the McDonald's restroom*.  Damn kids, he thinks, as he puts the table to its closed position.

A few minutes later, Mike can be heard shouting commands to the crew in what can only be described as one of the most beautiful displays of choreography known to man or beast.  Your scintillating McDonald's dining experience is due to Mike's management skill.  Much like His father and brother could run a football offense, Mike steered the fast food restaurant to victory every single day!


* I bet that will come back to bite him.  Just sayin'

Something for Aidan's Song

Below these words are words on a blogpost.  Agreement fulfilled.  Touche.


"Time out!"  Aidan needed a minute.  This was the most important moment of his life.  If they could pull the upset, Aidan's team would be the first from this school to win state since his father manned the helm some 25 years before.

"I know you're helping me pops!"  Aidan whispered to the sky as he ran over to the sideline to tell coach his idea.  The sold out stadium was shaking with the roar of the crowd.  About 90% rooting for Aidan and his team.

Aidan's opposing team had won state 4 of the last 5 years and looked to add another one tonight.  Their fans were fewer in number.  It was old hat to them.

Coach smiled to relax the kid.  Since Aidan had taken over at QB, the team had won 6 straight and got themselves into this title match.  Coach already knew he was going to go with whatever idea Aidan had.  The kid had a head for this stuff.  He could be a hell of a coach some day, thought the coach.

"Hey Coach," Aidan began, "I have an ideeeeeAAAHH!!!

At about 7 feet from the sideline, Aidan slipped through the earth.  To the onlooking crowd, he seemed to just vanish.  From Aidan's perspective, he was falling and spinning.  It was complete darkness.  He didn't know where he was or which way was up.

After what seemed like about a minute, the spinning slowed and the darkness was giving in to a faint light.  A moment later, he was standing before his dad.

"Dad?"  Aidan ventured, not daring to hope it was true.  He had been without his father for 6 years.  He always said he had a million questions for his dad if he ever saw him again.  Now, here he was.  Casually sitting on a grassy embankment.  Blue jeans.  Plain black T-shirt.  Slicked back blonde hair.  The place seemed familiar to Aidan, but he couldn't figure it out.

"It's me, son."  Dad's eyes were a little watery.

"What is this?"  was all Aidan could manage.  The million questions gone.

"I don't have a lot of time kid.  But here's the deal.  You've got this thing.  Go with your gut and you'll succeed.  I guarantee it.  I've seen it."

"Really?  We're going to win the game?"

"Game?  What game? Oh you mean the football game?  How the fuck should I know?  Seriously kid.  Your dead dad comes from the grave to visit you and you're thinking about a sporting contest of some sort?"

"Sorry, I just. It's just that it's happening right now, so it's kind of, you know ..."

"Yeah I understand kid. Listen.  You're a good kid ..."

At that, Aidan instinctively turned to see if anyone was behind him.

"Son.  Stop fooling around and listen.  Some hard news is coming.  I need you to be strong for your sisters."

"Sisters?  What about Mom?  Oh."

Aidan knew when he saw his father's head bowed.  The spasms of his big shoulders.  His dead dad was crying.  Weeping actually.  It was sooo embarrassing.

"Dad?  Why would you cry?  Doesn't this mean you and mom will finally be together?"

Aidan's father nodded and regained his composure.  Wiping tears from his eyes, he looked at his son who had become a man and said, "That's the problem, son. If you know what I mean.  Wink wink nudge nudge!"

"What is this place?"  Aidan asked his dad.

"I think you can figure that out.  Look around you."

Aidan scanned the horizon.  He was at the bottom of a tiny valley.  Dad was sitting at the edge of a steep hill.

"Nope.  No idea pops."

"You're in the same place you've been all night, Aidan.  This is how the field looked when I was a boy."

"Weird," said Aidan.

"Ok son.  I gotta go.  Why don't you go win that championship now!"

"Sure thing pops!"

"And son?"

"Yeah?"

"You won't forget about the taking care of your sisters, right?"

Now Aidan was getting a little impatient.  He didn't want to cool down before the biggest play of his career.  He exhaled, "No dad.  Mom's gonna die and you need me to be strong.  Blah, blah, blah."

"Fair enough.  One last thing son.  Don't be a dick."

Aidan's father faded from view.  Aidan found himself standing in front of coach who was yelling at him to get out there and finish this thing.  The crowd noise was deafening.  There was suddenly a sharp pain on the left side of Aidan's neck.  It felt like he was cramping up.  Not now, Aidan thought.  Just one last play.  But it was happening again.  It always did.  Always before the last play.  Aidan reached up to try to massage the kink from his neck and in so doing, woke himself up.

The crowd noise became the white noise blasting from the television, long off the air.  The pain in his neck was from falling asleep sitting up with his head against his shoulder.  There was a half drank bottle of beer resting on Aidan's enormous gut.  Aidan looked at his watch.  "Shit.  5:30.  I can't be late for work again.  Fuckin' Mike.  Like it matters at all if I'm a few minutes late."

But it did matter. Those Eggs are aren't going to McMuffin themselves, Mike always said.

Aidan grabbed his dirty McDonald's "Jersey" from the spot on the floor he'd thrown it last night.

"Another day in paradise," Thought Aidan, age 47 as he lit a smoke and raced his way through the sleepy neighborhoods in his piece of shit 87 Buick.

"Look at this Fuckin guy,"  Aidan remarked to himself, pointing with his cigarette, as he gunned the Buick and changed course toward the bike commuter "in his way."

To be continued.  Not really.  I was just goofing around with ideas.  God, I'm lazy.  Goodnight.

Racing

About a month ago, some guy was all, "Hey - why do you want to race?"

Then he was all, "Hey - what if you go race and nobody seems to be paying attention to who wins? Then would you still race?"

Then this girl is all, "Big words, blah blah blah, psychology, brains, etc, etc.  I used to be like you.  I have to install a bike rack and stuff."

Then I'm all, "Hey - why do I race?"

But then, "Hey - I don't race.  At least not very often.  But I always think I'm going to next time.  Why is that?"

I used to race quite a bit about 10 or 12 years ago.  I wanted to do well and before my first couple of races, I believed I had a shot at winning.  I was wrong.  I got dropped from all of my first several road races - usually on the first climb of the first lap.  I was pulled from most crits in the third or fourth lap.

By the time I stopped racing about 7 or 8 years ago, I was roughly middle of the cat 4 pack.

I stopped because I couldn't get it together and it was expensive and golf.

Then I got fat.  So I started riding again.  I never wanted to race again.  Just get into better shape.  I wanted to be a part of the Wednesday Night Worlds again.  That was it.

But guess what?  You can't just make "that it".  They won't let you.  Once you get good enough to be competitive, you will be badgered to race whether you want to or not.

But this is a good thing.  Racing is fun.  Not fun in the traditional way. Fun in the "You think this hurts?  How about this!" kind of way.  It is the most painful thing you will ever do to yourself.

You know how when you get a bad flu and first you just want to feel better.  Then it seems like forever and you just feel horrible.  Then you think that dying would be ok if it would end your suffering.  Then you start to get a little better.  You're still sick, but you feel better than you ever remember feeling.  That's what a bike race is like.  Except there's a lot more sweating, puking, and hallucinating going on at a bike race.

Late last summer, I was feeling pretty fit and Shim kept pushing me to race.

I was like, "Geez. Why can't I just do WNWs and not tie up my Saturdays?"

I came up with excuse after excuse.  But after reading the blog post called, "Bro, do you even race?*," I had to think about it.

I didn't race Papillion last weekend.  When I told my wife it was because I wasn't happy with my current fitness, she was all, "What - are you only going to race if you think you can win?"

Ding!

That was it.  That's the real answer that's been hiding from me.  If I don't think I have a chance at winning, I won't race.** No wonder I couldn't find it.  It was in my brain all along.  I never look in there for anything.  Talk about psychology, blah blah, blah.

But I really do want to race.  I guess I'd better get into shape then.

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

*It's actually called "Racing"

** Unless it's Cyclocross.  That shit's just fun.  Still that one kind of "flu like symptom" fun I describe above, but cyclocross adds, "being mocked by a huge crowd of drunken spectators" fun.  Sign me up for that shit 1.5/4/120!***

***This is an ancient shorthand for the cyclocross training season.  It means 90 minutes, 4 times a week for 4 months.

Tuesday Extra: Eye of the kid

For most of this year, I have not had any interest in road riding alone. Usually if it's just me, I would prefer to hit one of the mountain bike trails.  That's a lot more entertaining than miles of road just for the sake of riding.

For a few months, the bulk of my rides has been either commuting or group riding. If I do end up on a solo road ride, I just don't have the motivation to push myself.  I'll decide on a route and endure it at an easy pace.

I'm writing this post for two reasons:

1) I may have found some new spirit from an unlikely source.  Kids.

2) There was nothing much to read anywhere today after Robin Williams and Ferguson.

Two local kids (ages 12 and 13) raced the Category 5 Papillion Criterium this past Saturday.  I had volunteered to help out for the races.  I had no real interest in racing, but when I found out these kids, who are a part of the Devo Dirt Militia program were racing, I was excited to see how they'd do.  I knew they were strong riders, but I never expected them to do as well as they did.

They stayed with the main group throughout the race.  At one point they were able to bridge up to a pair of riders trying to catch the lone breakaway rider.  It was incredible.  On every lap, you could see them straining to stay with the group.  To get into good position.

Watching them fight so hard for so long was inspirational.  It made me want to work harder in training.  When I saw the following picture posted, I thought it brilliantly captures what I saw at the race.  They used to always talk about "The Look"  Lance Armstrong gave to Jan Ullrich just before dropping him on L'Alpe d'Huez.  I don't know.  I think this one's better:

I've made no secret that my "helping out" at Devo is for selfish reasons.  I learn at least as much as the kids (if not as fast).

Last night Mark Savery started a CX training series for the Devo Dirt militia.  I went to help/learn where needed.  The night's lesson focused on the importance of getting a good start and how it can set the tone for the rest of the race.  He was arranging all the kids into 2 rows and rearranging them after each run through a small course he had set up.  At one point, he told me to get in the third row.  I was more than happy to oblige.  The kids were having so much fun I really wanted to join in.  After a couple times of that Mark also jumped in on the fun.

At the end of it, Jack and all the kids had learned a ton and had more fun than I've ever seen at one of these things.

Today I commuted to work and drilled it the whole way.  I felt a little silly, but no sillier than I felt having a blast at the Devo CX training last night. Thanks kids.

Friday Extra: Something for you to read (now with audio support)

Amazon Prime membership now comes with streaming music.  So that's pretty cool.  There's some stuff I wouldn't normally listen to or even know about that I can at least check out.

One that I'd never heard of before was "Old Crow Medicine Show."  It's kind of an old-timey sort of bluegrass country thing.  Think "Oh Brother, Where art Thou" soundtrack.  Not that they're on it as far as I know - it's just that's the kind of music they play.

Anyway - that's not why I'm here.  I'm here to talk about "Rockabye Baby"

Amazon prime offers about 600 songs from "Rockabye Baby."  They are a bunch of rock songs arranged into lullabies that you could, if you wanted to, play in an infant's room.

They have music from the likes of Metallica, Bon Jovi, Guns 'n' Roses, Led Zeppelin, and so on.

I've listened to a bunch of it mostly because it's really funny.  They make Black Sabbath songs like "War Pigs" and "Paranoid" sound like serene, happy little songs.  I could see how they could sooth your newborn.

There's lots of heavy xylophone use in these songs.  Plus, there's usually the random cricket chirp.

So I'm working my way through these lullabies, thinking they might actually work when I get to "The music of Nirvana"    


It might be the most horrifying thing I've ever heard. "Smells like Teen Spirit" comes across way darker than the original or it's accompanying video ever thought of being.  I was sitting here listening to it in broad daylight and I became anxious and fearful.  There weren't even any crickets at all.  No way I would play this to a baby.  Unless I was in the "Serial Killer" raising business or something.  I feel like the Rockabye baby people lull you into thinking these are safe, then bam!  Your kid is hurting small animals.

Actually, the Rockabye Baby version of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" might be the best version there is.  Even better than the original.  Even better than Al Yankovic's. Go check it out.  I'm going back to the "Old Crow Medicine Show" to try and wash the trauma away and hopefully prevent night terrors.

Good day to you.

P.S. I will also note that I just listened to Rockabye baby's "Hurt" by NIN.  That's not putting any kids to sleep either.

A Lightning War of Speed and Strength

There is no "right" way to commute by bicycle. There are different types of bikes, commutes, and riding styles that best suit a particular commuter.

I prefer my super light, super fast "racing" bike.

In the past, I've outfitted the bike with panniers. I don't care for them. I never found a way to keep them completely out of the way. I don't like the way they change the feel of the ride. The bike has more weight in different spots.

Maybe it's because the road bike geometry is not well suited to luggage. I am currently in need of a new bike to be in accordance with the rules. It makes sense for me to get a touring bike that I can load down with all sorts of crap.

Until then, I'll just use my wonderful Banjo Bros Backpack.

I like to wear my regular "road" kit then change into my "work" clothes once I get to work. My clothes stay clean and dry and the ride is comfortable.

When I'm commuting in my fancy getup and big old backpack, I am aware of how silly I look to motorists and cats. They don't understand that everything I do or wear is as much about function as form. I don't expect them to understand. They are not cyclists (they are either motorists or cats). If they see me and think anything at all - it is that I am trying to have a certain look. "Get a load of this guy," they'll say, "He's gotta be like 50 years old and he thinks he's some kind of pro biker like Lance whatsisname!"

Then their wives slap them on their enormous gut and taunt, "Ira. You should look so pro!"

Then they curse the day they listened to the rabbi who advised them not to marry that 'shiksa.'

On Wednesdays, I usually drive the car to work if I think Brady will be attending The Wednesday Night Trek Store ride.

Then it's my turn to judge. But since I understand the thinking behind all types of bike commuting, I aim at motorcyclists. My kneejerk reaction to these guys is something like "Whatever dude."

That's what most people who see me on my bike are thinking, so I try to figure out why on earth the motorcycle commuter dresses/acts the way he does.

I can almost always come up with something.

Normally, I see guys just riding their normal motorcycle in normal clothes and normal looking helmet. They are obviously just commuting to work. These guys look normal to me, a non-motorcyclist. I think the equivalent cyclist is in his work clothes, riding a comfort bike on the sidewalk. Not that I think a cyclist should be on the sidewalk. I know better. We're talking motorist POV here. Remember that.

Next, it's the guys on Harleys (or other cruiser type motorcycles) that think they are cowboys. They wear chaps. They have black leather saddle bags. Lots of black leather fringe everywhere. These are the recumbents of the motorcycle world. Mostly. The recumbent riders are stupid hippies (not cowboys) but they do have thick idiotic looking beards, so.

Then there's the guys on "crotch rockets."  They look like they're giving their bike a good doggy style rogering, if you know what I mean.

Usually, these are the guys weaving heroically through morning traffic at ridiculous speeds.  I normally say a tiny little prayer for their instant demise.

Regardless - I still get what is going on here. They also wear backpacks or knapsacks. They are aerodynamic. They are efficiently moving through traffic - and to me - they look completely ridiculous.

I hate to say it, but these are like the road bike commuters.  They can't slow down even though they are only going to work. On your effin' left, for Pete's sake!

Ok.  So I guess that's it.  Every motorcyclist who at first seems to be wearing something ridiculous is actually just wearing what best suits his ...

Wait a minute.  What's this guy behind me doing?

I'm at a stoplight and glance in my rear view mirror.  What I see at first startles me because I think I'm about to be pummeled by a Centurion.  After a frightening second, I realize what I mistook for a Roman soldier was just a guy on a motorcycle.  His helmet though.  I've not seen its equal.  It had a magnificent red plume of the finest horsehair.  Luckily, I now have a capable smartphone and was able to snap a shot of this glorious fellow just as he prepared to make a left turn.

Ok, so surely there's an explanation.  He's um - a delivery driver for a pizza place, maybe?  Sure, that makes sense.  Centurion Pizza.  The taste will decimate you!

Whew.  I'm glad I figured that ... Uh oh.  I mean - I know that the Romans controlled Germany, but I'm pretty sure they were out of there before WWII.  Just as I was laughing at myself for the silly notion that I was about to be trampled, I was overcome by a new panic.  "Oh my god.  Are my papers in order?"  I asked myself.  This roman guard had on a jacket that identified him as none other than an officer of Hitler's Schutzstaffel (S.S).  Here's what he was wearing. Really.

I'm not sure why it says "Speed Strength" on the sleeve. All I know is I was having a tough time justifying a Roman Nazi commuting to work.

I tried though. Maybe the plume was convenient for brushing dust off the bike at the end of the day. Maybe the jacket makes it easier to interrogate suspects.

But I never really could explain it. All I know is I hope he doesn't ever cross paths with poor old Ira and his bitch of a wife. Oy vey!

~~

Seriously.  I mean my blog post is done before the squiggly line.  But who the fuck thought designing a black jacket with "SS" on the sleeve was a good idea?  Fucking Nazis, that's who.

And sceeeeene!

Wednesday Extra: The Mystery is Dead. Long Live the Mystery.

One time about a year ago, I walked into the break room nearest to where I sit.  I went in to get some water.  We have these water dispenser things that claim to use some sort of reverse osmosis filtering mechanism.  I don't know what that means, but it says right on the dispenser "Filtered by Reverse Osmosis."

I remember something from science class about 35 years ago where the teacher guy took some sort of plastic bag filled with either water or a solution.  He then stuck it into a big tub of water that had either water or a solution in it and then some stuff from in the bag got out or something from outside got in.

I hope there wasn't a test on it.  Anyway, I'm pretty sure he used the word "osmosis" during this messy little demonstration.

So my thought on this water in the break room is that the machine it comes out of somehow does the opposite of what the teacher guy did.

Next to this magical water machine is the coffee machine.  I don't ever get the coffee.  Once was enough.  I bring a Thermos® of coffee from home now.

Anyway - on this particular morning about a year ago, I noticed that between the reverse osmosis filtered water machine and the coffee machine was a tall steaming, lipstick, stained cup of coffee.

It looked like this:

My first thought was, "I guess some old lady forgot to take her nasty-ass coffee with her."
Then I thought, "Well maybe she's tried the coffee before and left it here on purpose."
Then I thought, "Well, why even pour it into the cup then?"
Then I thought, "That lipstick is fucking disgusting."

I didn't think it was an abandoned cup, because as I mentioned, it was steaming hot.  It is possible that this coffee steams even when it's cool.  It's not very good coffee.  I don't know its behavior other than tasting horrible.

Well this went on for a couple of weeks.  Every day I would go in to get me some FRO (filtered by Reverse Osmosis) water to find this steaming hot lipstick cup of coffee.

Then for many months, I stopped going in there to get water in the morning.  This is related to bike commuting.  I will take my water bottle and drink it's contents (after my Thermos® full of coffee) in the morning.  Even though the tap water from home is nowhere near as tasty as the FRO water, it seems wasteful to just dump it.

But I drove to work this morning.  No Water bottle.  FRO, here I come.  But the Lipstick Coffee cup wasn't there.

I didn't expect it to be there.  I didn't give it a thought.  It's been a while, so I had forgotten about it.  While I was cleaning out my coffee cup (that I use for the water), a skinny old lady with bright red lips walked in.  She was carrying a tall Styrofoam™ cup.

Then the memory of the mysterious cup came back to me.  I looked to see that her cup was indeed lipstick stained.  She walked over to the coffee machine and filled the cup.

I was actually surprised at what happened next.  She put the cup on the counter and left the break room.

So I have an answer to my question, "Why is there often a lipstick stained Styrofoam™ cup of hot coffee left unattended in the break room?"

It's because some cat lady leaves it there.

But why ...

To be continued?

Tuesday extra: bike commuter fever. Catch it!

Since I started working here at the company, I've been pretty much the only bike commuter.  But now I'm seeing an encouraging trend.  In fact, in recent months, the number of folks who "ride bikes" to work has nearly doubled!

So I got that going for me.  Which is nice. 

Now to get the lunch taco ride going.

The Lycra Horde

A man with all the powers of Hell at his command. He could turn the day into night and lay to waste everything in his path. He was especially hard on little things-the helpless and the gentle creatures. He left a scorched earth in his wake befouling even the sweet desert breeze that whipped across his brow. I didn't know where he came from or why.  -- H.I. McDunnough, Describing the Keystone Trail during WNW.

Lycra.  That's what I've always called it anyway.  I guess technically the general public is correct and I am not.  All the non-cyclists I know call it "spandex."

Spandex is the generic term whereas "Lycra" is a brand name or something.  Kind of like "Roller Blades" vs "inline skates" or "Thermos" vs "vacuum flask"

But if you went to Target and said, "Where are the vacuum flasks?" they'd surely point you to the carpet cleaning stuff.

But Spandex.  When I hear somebody call bib shorts "Spandex,"  I always think of some non specific glam rocker from the 70's, jumping around, doing the splits, spinning the microphone stand, etc.  Or maybe Stryper.  Yeah - I think of Stryper when I hear the word Spandex.

We didn't know what Jesus would do so we came up with this

So I prefer Lycra.  We are The Lycra Horde!  Hoo-ah!

A few minutes before the appointed time (6 PM sharp), the warriors assemble.  They seem an easy-going sort.  But it's a facade.  There are a few jokes and conversational comments going around.  There are failed attempts at levity.

Most of the riders remain silent.  Dark glasses conceal the singular gaze of each man.  Grim faced. Tight lipped. Waiting.  Until the ride begins, there is nothing but mental preparation.

Several riders distract themselves with unnecessary last minute equipment adjustments.  There is an unmistakable scent of ozone from all the electricity in the air.  At first, some of the older riders try to blame Munson until they remember that he's locked deep in the bowels of the Trek Store's hidden chambers.  So great his fall, he's now relegated to the role of "Cat 2 Wrench."

The men must not dwell on Munson's utter failure.  Focus is the key to successful conquest.  The upcoming assault will require all the skill each rider can muster.  When you are terrorizing joggers, children, and dogs, you must be on your game.  These puny trail users are an unpredictable lot.  The goal is to remain upright upon your steed as your prey take cover.  A moment's inattention can spell doom for you and the entire band of bastards you call "brother".

At exactly 6:04 and 36 seconds, Shimonek Khan takes one last look around.  Not everyone is there, but we cannot be forestalled.  He shrugs and drops the flag.

"I guess the rest of them had to get their toes done!"  he mocks to the delight of the horde.  We all give a hearty laugh that is more tension release than sense of humor.  The assault begins now.

For the next few miles, from roughly Nebraska Furniture Mart to Democracy Park near Fort Street, we will reign supreme on the narrow multi-use path.  We are The Lycra Horde! Hoo-ah!  But of course, I mentioned that already, so ...

As we charge down the path, kicking up a cloud of dust thick enough to block out the sun and bring darkness upon the land, I look at my brothers and laugh at all who flee to avoid the wrath of our bicycle tires!  I'm positively giddy about it.

It is a nice night, so traffic on the trail is heavy with joggers, young families and their pets out for a nice walk.  Little children learning to ride their shiny new bike they got last Christmas.

The Lycra horde descends mercilessly upon them all.

Many see this work as evil, but we know better.  We are on a mission from God.  Like Moses's pet locusts, we were sent to cleanse the trail of comfort bikers and their ridiculous clip-on aerobars.

... I will bring cyclists onto your path tomorrow. They will cover the trail so that it cannot be seen. They will devour what little you have left, including every toddler that rests in a Burley. They will roll right over your dogs, your wife, your kine, and ass(literally) — something neither your fathers nor your forefathers have ever seen from the day they settled in this land till now. Also, I'll send them next Wednesday, too, because that's the sort of stuff I do -- Exe. 10, Plague of Lycra, paraphrased version.

As a young girl trying to avoid us rolls her pretty princess bike off the trail and into creek below, I toss a skin of airag to The Khan.  He roars his approval and shows his teeth in a maniacal grin.  He throws his head back and takes great swallows of the fermented mare's milk.

We love nothing more than the conquest.  It is the only time we are alive.

Earlier this year, our numbers dwindled to the point we could hardly scare the occasional bunny rabbit.  But now with the beautiful weather --  WE. ARE. UNSTOPPABLE!

As a new warrior to the horde, I typically find myself in the last rank.  This is not all bad.  From this vantage point, I witness first hand, the destruction wrought by my brothers.

Usually, it's a grouchy look from an enemy cyclist who has been forced onto the grass. Sometimes, the vanquished rewards me with his verbal assessment of our clan.  Usually, it's "Jerk!"  Sometimes "Jackass!" and every once in a while, my favorite, "Really?!?"

"On your left!"  I'll reply, knowing full well the time for "On your left" is long past.  Hoo-ah!

In conclusion:  maybe we should spread it out a little while we're on the trail, eh guys?  What do you say?  No?  Ok.  I'll continue in the last row then.

Monday Extra: Please hurry up or slow down.

Yesterday morning, I joined the GSV crowd for the 9:30 Sunday ride.  Spence was there so we were guaranteed some hard efforts.

The last few times I've done this ride, it has been relatively mild.  I expected about 40 or 45 miles or so to Ft. Calhoun and back.

Nope.  I guess the wind was more southerly so we went to Glenwood instead.  This makes it about a 60 mile ride.

About 20 or more people were there, but Bernardo, Stu and I were the 3 that managed to hang on to Spence's wheel for the most part.

If we did a paceline, the speed would drop about 3MPH whenever Spence stopped pulling.  We would remain at that lower speed until he pulled again.

For me, it ended up being a hard day on the bike.

As I was making my way home, going west on a flat 27th and Burt, I heard a loud and disgusting belch from behind me.  I turned to see some weirdo on a full suspension NEXT mountain bike, wearing a full face downhill helmet.  The bike looked exactly like this (they sell them at wal-mart):

The helmet looked kind of like this:

I was exhausted and having a nice and easy pedal back home.  My Garmin said I had 64.67 miles in so far.

So the guy pulls up along side me starts talking to me.  I'm sure it was the furthest thing from his mind, but I imagine he's judging himself to be pretty much the shit since he easily closed the gap on some fancy-pants road guy.

"What's up?" he says.

"Not much," I say.

"Sweet.  Where are you headed?"

"Home."

"Sweet.  Where's that?"

"About 3 miles yonder," I point with my finger in the general direction of forward.  It's none of this guy's fucking business where I live.

"Sweet. Where'd you ride today?"

"It was a group ride to Glenwood.  About 60 miles."  Even though I don't care at all what this guy thinks, I find myself wanting to justify his catching up to me.  Yeah - I'll never change.

"Sweet.  Where does the ride start?"

"Blue Line coffee.  9:30.  Sundays,"  What do I know?  Maybe he's an accomplished rider who gets a kick out of looking stupid on wal-mart bikes.

We are now at 33rd and Burt where the road goes up.  He drops into granny gear and says, "Sweet.  Well, maybe I'll see you there sometime."

"Yeah, maybe," I say.  I'm fascinated.  He's spinning at about 120 rpms but his bike is not going any faster.  That was a small gear. He was obviously showing me what he had.  My earlier thought that he was somehow proud of catching me was verified.  He was done talking.  He could no longer ride at my slow pace.  It was time to kick it up a notch and attack this hill.  He knew there was no way I could keep up with him, so he bid me adieu as the road pitched to the heavens.

At first, I wanted to just let him go on up the hill and leave me alone.  Then we'd both be happy.  I waited for a minute, soft pedalling, but he wasn't getting any farther away from me.  So I just decided to ride my own easy pace up the hill.  One second later, when I flew by him, he ... grabbed my wheel.  He was trying to keep up with me.  His breathing became dangerously labored, but he was doing it.  At about halfway up, he was still with me.

My legs were tired.  Real tired.  But soon, my ears got more tired of hearing the struggle going on behind me.  I am embarrassed to say that I went the rest of the way up the hill as hard as I could.

Well, that got rid of that guy - but then I was forced to listen to my own labored breathing for the next 5 minutes or so.  Oh bitter irony.

I'm Back!

But this time ... it's nothing personal.

Over the past 14 years or so, since I started using cycling as my main form of exercise, I've backed off from it several times.

I've made at least a dozen or so declarations of "returning."  My weight has gone up and down.  I quit to finish college once.  I took up golf once, and so on.

About the time I was on my first big fade, Barry (AKA BM) started crossing over from running to cycling.  I could see right away that he was talented.

Eventually he became an excellent rider.  At the same time - around 2006/7 or so, I got serious about golf and gained about 25-30 pounds.

In the fall of 2011, I started crossing back over to cycling from golf but it didn't stick.  In the Summer of 2012, I golfed much more than rode.

Throughout that whole time (2006-2011), I'd hear from Barry occasionally.  He'd email me with something like, "You should come back to cycling.  Good times await."

Around Thanksgiving 2012, Boomer came into town from his home in California.  I had not been riding much in the previous 5 or 6 months. Boomer asked me if I knew what Strava was.  I didn't, but it sounded really cool.

I bought a Garmin within a couple of days.  I was more focused on cycling than ever.  I was aware that someday the novelty of Strava would probably grow tiresome for me, but I just hoped that when that happened, I would be able to find motivation from somewhere else.

As I started coming back, I was constantly asking Barry where the rides were.  He was the only cyclist I was in touch with on a regular basis.

The first group ride I went on in years was on a bitter cold December day.  The streets were clear, so it was road bikes.  When I showed up at Blue Line, Shim said, "This is the day you decide to join us?"

It was pretty funny, but I had to get my Strava going so I wasn't missing the ride.

After that, the only way I would find out about a ride happening was if Barry told me about it.  In fact, if it's anything other than the widely advertised group rides, Barry is still the only person who tells me about it.

So to those of you who are new to Omaha cycling (weren't there when I left), that's why you think I only ride if Barry's there.  It's not true at all.  The truth is, I only go on your little secret group rides if Barry tells me about them.  I was riding before Barry and if he hadn't taken cycling up, I might not have come back as soon.  I certainly wouldn't have been privy to many of the rides I joined.

Earlier this year, I found life getting in the way of my training.  It was relentless.  I lost fitness and motivation. I tried to train through it, but it really didn't free up until July 1.

In hindsight, this is probably a good thing.  I had been frustrated by not being able to get adequate rides in for so long that when it opened up I didn't miss any opportunity.  July has been an incredible month. After what seemed like Winter winter winter rain rain rain for the first 6 months, July arrived with little wind or rain and mild temps for basically the whole month.

Last week on Thursday and Friday, I decided to stick it to the man and use up some of my PTO.  On Friday, I did not get a bike ride in.  I was on my bike the other 30 days of July.  This includes 3 GSV Sunday rides, 3 WNW rides and  a Tuesday GSV ride.

This month, I've had my most hours and miles in a calendar month ever.

Barry is a triathlete now.  To a cyclist, that's kind of like telling somebody you're taking up golf.  Hopefully he'll come to his senses some time soon.

But even if he doesn't, I'm back.  I may not find out about secret rides anymore, but I'll be at the public ones.
Why do I say all of this?  I can't remember.  Oh yeah.  I know what it was.  Hey Leah:  You don't need to tell me Barry's not coming on a ride anymore.  I like when he's there.  But my ride sponsor days are long over.  Especially at WNW.

When I'm at WNW, it's a better ride than when I'm not there and everybody knows it.  Why?  Because when I'm there, Shim can ask 70's trivia and there is a possibility of somebody (me) knowing the answer.

Without me there, it's all "What in the hell is Shim talking about?"

Awful lot of weather we [sic] been havin' lately

Conversation.  Small talk.  I've never felt comfortable with it.  It's because I take things too literally.  I always have.  If you see what I see when you read between the lines, you'll wonder why you thought there was ever anything there to read.

I remember being a kid when I first heard someone say "You need to read between the lines."  I was so confused.  I think I know what it means now.  This notion of the meaning is what I gather strictly from context.  Over the years, I've heard it (Read between the lines) enough to get a general idea of its meaning.  I think it means, "Don't take stuff literally.  The speaker has ulterior motives."

Knowing this - I realize "read between the lines" is not to be taken seriously and whoever says it should not be trusted.

But that's not what I came here to talk about.  Earlier tonight, the family and I went over to the BW3 for some weck and whatnot.   I guess it should be BW4 if you add "whatnot"

If you know Shim, now would be a good time to imagine him saying "What the hell is cube talking about?"

Anyway - at some point, my top 5 daughter was talking about that thing that happens.  I mentioned that there's a comedian who does a routine on it.

It's when somebody says something like "How's it going?"

And you say "You too."

What's funny is - I don't know that I've ever caught somebody giving me the wrong mindless response to my mindless greeting.  But when I'm the one who says "You too,"  I hate myself.

I have done this countless times and every time, I feel like an imbecile.  I vow to never do it again.  Of course this is silly.  The reason nobody has ever called me on it is that NOBODY is listening. At all.  When somebody says, "Have a nice day," and you respond with "Not much,"  You're the only one who hears it.  That guy is already somewhere else.

Unless.

Unless you know something about somebody.  If you accidentally found out somebody's deep, dark secret, and it was really deep and really dark.  The sort of thing that you are sorry you know about a person. You'd take EVERYTHING they say literally while simultaneously reading between the lines.

What is that supposed to mean?

It's natural to rank how wrong certain actions are.  The kids play a game "Would you rather ..."  We grow up deciding what is the lesser of two evils.

Stealing from a poor old person is worse than taking a candy bar from a grocery store.  Shooting a guy in the head is worse than wanting to shoot a guy in the head, and so on.

So this guy I know.  I see him once in a while. As we pass each other, he'll invariably say, "What do you know, Cube?"

He doesn't know that I know what he did.  I found out accidentally.  Let's just say, he'll be lucky if there's a millstone and the deep blue sea in his future (Mt. 18:6).

Since I learned the terrible secret, I always say, "If I told you, you'd have to kill me."

And since people are as I described above, he pays no attention to my answer and simply says, "Hardy Har Har."

I wasn't eavesdropping, per se

As a matter of fact, I didn't really want to hear the conversation.  At all.

How long can you talk about pickles?  I mean, if your directive was talk about pickles for as long as possible, then you could probably talk about pickles for a long time.  It's my guess though, that after a while you'd get repetitive.  Then we'd have to establish rules on what you could say about pickles.

Here.  Let's pretend you have to write an essay on pickles.  If you were lucky enough to attend Omaha Central High School, you would use the theme format you were taught.  I don't know if it's still the same as when I went to Omaha Central High School, but back then it went like this:

Outline.  This was a template for the theme.  It described the parts of the theme.  The introduction, the body, and the conclusion.  It was the old "Tell us what you're going to say.  Say it.  Tell us what you said."

An outline for a theme on Pickles might go like this

Introduction: Pickles -
 I. Unknown Origin
  a) A city in Crisis
  b) Farmer John to the rescue
II. Get those Cucumbers outta here.  We want pickles!
Body:
  I.  Granny is making stuff up

and so on.  You know, that's about as far as I ever got with outlines in school, so.

There's this guy at work (Brian).  He likes pickles.  He does not like cucumbers.  His wife doesn't like cucumbers either.  But she likes pickles.  If you're from the city, you may be asking yourself why the hell I keep bringing up cucumbers.  If you're from the farm, Shhh! don't tell them.  It's a surprise.

There's another guy (Rob).  He sits in a cubicle facing mine, but down the row one chair.  Pickle guy sits in the same row as me but 2 cubicles down.  Oh, I'm not explaining this well.  Hang on while I pay an expert sketch artist to illustrate:

That's me on the lower left.  The guy 2 down (Brian) is having a hard time concentrating on his work.  He's thinking about something much more delicious. Rob is facing us.

So the other day, Brian stands up and says to Rob "Do you like pickles, Rob?"  The only way I know he was asking Rob is because he said the name.  Otherwise, it was loud enough that he could have been asking anyone in the building.

Oh boy, I think.  This is going somewhere.  The following is not a word for word transcript.  Nor is it an exaggeration.

"Yeah, I like Pickles,"  Rob confirms, obviously happy for the break from the drudgery that is "I.T. Shit" to the promise of some thought provoking "pickle talk"

I should point out here, that they were literally talking about pickles.  This is not some sort of euphemism.

"Me and my wife [ sic ] we really like pickles.  I make my own. Have you ever had homemade pickles, Rob?  They're so much better than that store bought crap the Media is always trying to sell you.  I haven't made pickles in years.  But we always used to when I was a kid.  So I figured this year; it was time.  So I planted some cucumbers in my garden this year and ..."

At this point, I decided to go take a walk.  I got up from my cube and went into the break room where CNN was still talking about whatever it was before the Russians shot down that Malaysian Airlines flight.  I walked over to the fundraiser $0.25 machines and bought a handful of delicious almonds.  I really like almonds.  Usually, I just make my own ...

After about 10 minutes or so, I figured the Pickle Monologues must be winding down.  At still quite a distance from my cube, I could see that Brian was still talking to Rob, but I figured they'd moved on to how the colleges rip you off with the price of text books (another of Brian's favorites).

Nope.  Still pickles.

"So, I walk into the house with an armful of baby cucumbers - I like 'em young.  Big ones don't make good pickles, see?"

Rob is intent on listening to this story.  I must be too, because now I am relaying it to youz guys.

"And me and my wife [sic] see, we don't like cucumbers, remember.  We only like pickles.  Well, my wife sees those cucumbers and she just about hits the roof.  She says, 'What on earth are you doing with those things?  I thought you were going to make us [sic] some pickles.'

"She had no idea that pickles were made from cucumbers.  She was pretty embarrassed when I told her, but I promised I wouldn't tell anybody.  I lied.  Hardy har har.  It's really not her fault though.  She's a city slicker.  I grew up on a farm, so I know where stuff comes from.  City folk don't have a clue."

I'm  a little annoyed by this talk, not because Brian thinks people from the city don't know where pickles come from, but because he's affected a sort of hick way of speaking. "City folk."  Whatever dude.

"Rob, did you know that pickles were made from cucumbers?"

"Oh yes.  But you see, I spent a lot of time on my grandmother's farm.  She made all of that stuff. from scratch."

"Yeah, so you know what I'm talking about, Rob.  These kids today.  I'll tell you.  They wouldn't survive if they didn't have everything handed to them.  Fuckin' Obama ..."

Ahh.  And we're off of pickles.  Finally.  I know, right?

Stop and Think

Sometimes (most of the time) people (you) do really stupid stuff.  When you do it, I tend to think that you are stupid.  You are not stupid, are you?  Of course not.

Then why do you so frequently do stupid stuff?  It's because you don't stop and think.

Sometimes it can be a matter of simple education.  If you are in the habit of being impatient when you are driving your motor vehicle (Car, Truck, SUV), you should stop and think for a minute.  I know, you don't have a minute.  You're in a big fat hurry.  But check out what I've learned over the years from driving my car to the company each morning:

This is basically a traipse across the city along 72nd street.  There have been several times I was running late and thought that driving faster would help.  It does not.  Mostly now, I just take a nice easy drive at the speed limit and watch as eager, aggressive, impatient motorists weave through traffic, speed through yellow/red lights, and cut others off for that sweet pole position at the next stop light.

Once the rest of us approach the light, it turns green and the "late for a meeting" race to the next red light begins. The rest of us watch with the mild interest that comes from seeing this scene play out every day for years.

It usually takes me about 20 minutes to drive the seven miles from Cass to Cornhusker.  If you stop and think about it, that's just over 20MPH average.  If there were no traffic lights and you could go unimpeded for the whole distance at 60 MPH, you could make it in 7 minutes.  You'd save 13 minutes!  That's amazing! You should do that.

But you can't.  If you drive 60 MPH at every opportunity (the speed limit ranges from 35-45) along that stretch) and run the occasional yellow/red light, the trip will take you 20 minutes.  You can not get there faster.  But you will be all riled up and angry at all the people slowing you down.

I used to be an impatient driver.  I just don't really care for being angry in the morning, so I quit.

When I'm out riding my bike around I will often encounter the impatient motorist.  This is a person who has not figured out it takes 20 Minutes to get from Cass to Cornhusker.  When this person is momentarily slowed because a bike is in the way, s/he takes it personally.  Note: I do not ride on 72nd street in town.  I'm slowing people down on safe streets with light traffic and plenty of room.

The driver feels like the cyclist has somehow stolen a piece of precious time.  Retribution is in order!  The fundamental difference between these 2 parties is that one is on a bike and the other is in a car.  Also, one is a big fat fucking heart attack waiting to happen.  Hey, I think there's some ketchup on your shirt.

This transgression (riding a bike slower than a car) must not go unpunished.  Somebody needs to teach this guy a lesson.  Scare 'em!  Speed up to 10 or 15 MPH above the posted speed limit and bring the car within a few inches of the cyclist as you pass!

Stop and think, driver.  If there's a bump in the road or something that takes the cyclist or you even slightly off course - if you forget how wide your stupid vehicle is or how far your ridiculous mirror sticks out, you may injure or kill the cyclist.

You will then blame the cyclist.  Especially once you realize the person had a family and people s/he loved.  It will be too much for you to take.  You will bullshit yourself into thinking that it was the cyclist's fault for being on the road.

But eventually, you will have to face the fact that you could have waited a few seconds until you could pass safely.

And since you're not a creative person, your only option for relieving the guilt will be to end your life.  Then you will be dead and your spouse and children will cry and stuff, but they'll know that you were a complete dumbass and all of this could have been avoided if you'd have just stopped to think.  Fuckin' loser.  You deserve it.

I experienced a wonderful example of somebody doing this the right way tonight while I was on my ride home.  I was riding across Pacific and into Elwood Park.  It's pretty narrow there because the oncoming traffic was taking up the left turn lane.  As I entered the park, a driver in a white Chevy Suburban decided to pass me.  There was barely enough room for a car.  Certainly not enough room to pass a cyclist.  I yelled "Hey!  Gimme some room!"  I stuck my hand out in front of the windshield and gave it a good slap.  I was calm but desperate.  There simply was not enough room for the SUV to get between the line of cars without hitting me.  Thankfully, this driver took the wise path.  She stopped to think.  To my utter surprise, the SUV backed off.  That almost never happens.

Then about 6 seconds later, when it was safe to pass, the SUV went by me at a safe distance and I understood.  There was a dog sticking its head out the back window.  The SUV would have had to go by me close enough that I would have collided with the dog's stupid head.  This driver was going to pass me and maybe hit me until she realized her fucking dog might be involved in the accident.

So when she stopped to think, it was about the well-being of her dog.  Stupid twat.

So I guess I owe that dog.

I recently had a stop and think moment myself.  I was riding along with a couple of cyclists named Eric O'Brien Redemske, when one of them decided to have a flat tire.  It was really hot out so the flat tire was a terrible idea.  Whatever, college boy.

As we were standing along the roadside, thinking about that flat tire, Bryan said something like, here comes another dog rescue for us.

I guess these guys have helped lost or stray dogs get either placed back at their houses or the humane society on 3 or 4 occasions in the last few years.

At first, it seems like some kind of weird fate.  I mean I've never seen a dog that needed rescuing.  Are these guys taking dogs from back yards or something?

Wait a minute.   I frequently see dogs out wandering around.  It's just that I never stop and think that the dog could be in some sort of trouble.  I don't own a dog.  When I'm out riding, I'm usually in a big hurry to get home.  If it had been just me riding along up the highway the other day, I may have seen the dog, but I NEVER would have thought to call her over and check out her tags and call the owner and the humane society and all that.  It just never would occur to me.

It will from now on.  Maybe all you cyclists out there do this already.  Maybe I'm the only one who never thought of it.  But I doubt it.  As cyclists, we are in a fantastic position to help dogs get back on track.

My only concern is the obvious one of how to safely attract the pooch in order to get the particulars.  That's why from now on I will always carry a live squirrel in my jersey pocket.

Unfortunately, I don't have a fancy smart phone or anything.  I just have a stupid old flip phone. I can't really look up the number of the humane society while I'm out there with your dog.  So I'm going to add it to my contacts right now.

O.K. that's done.  The number for the Nebraska Humane Society is 402-905-9410.  After 7PM. it's 402-444-7800, option 1.  If you're in Iowa, let the dog go.  I didn't look up that number.  Plus, the SUV that almost hit me today had Iowa plates, so the dog is probably better off wandering around than in that SUV.

Maybe later

I had a deal tonight.  I have to get up early tomorrow.  So yeah.  I'll think about posting something later on.  It's the holiday and stuff.  Happy Birthday Obama's country!

Wednesday Extra: Warning: Last Issue: Renew Now! We Mean it this time.

Judging from the date of the post, It was last September that Bicycling Magazine sent me 2 copies of their Magazine.  I didn't pay for it.  I don't know what I did to make them start sending it.  At first I was going to call them and complain, but I figured they'd go away soon enough.

I was wrong.  The next month they sent me another issue, with a note telling me that they hoped I enjoyed my complimentary issues and that if so, I was welcome to subscribe.

Even though I flipped through those first 2 issues before throwing them away, I haven't opened the plastic packaging since.  But I've regularly received issues of Bicycling Magazine.  I toss it in the trash with the other junk and actual bills since junk mail is now made to look just like real mail.  #thanksEdMcMahon.

The last 3 Bicycling magazine issues that came also had big huge warnings on them that my subscription was expiring and if I didn't renew, this would be my last issue.

Liars.

I hate Bicycling magazine so much.