Teh Darkness

Sometimes people know you.  Not most of the time.  Most of the time, people look at your actions and try to learn about you from what those actions would mean if they committed them.

Sometimes people hate you.  Not most of the time.  Most of the time they just hate how they feel when they take their fucked up perspective of you and consider their own miserable lives.

Sometimes people attack you.  Not most of the time.  Most of the time it is a misguided attempt at self-defense or survival.

I don't wish ill of anyone.  I've been in a bad place for the last couple of weeks trying to overcome an extremely difficult circumstance.

This is the reason I was considering suspending the blog posts last week.

There is a Chinese restaurant on Leavenworth.  It is called Three Happiness.  I asked them once what the name meant.  They told me.  I'm at Two Happiness right now.  Not a restaurant.  A level.

I haven't been this upset for many years.  If there's a silver lining, it's that being this upset reminds me of how I always felt when I was young.  Sure, I was extremely unhappy, but at least I was young!  

Not like now, where I'm old.  My family is wonderful, by the way.  No problems there.  I'll leave the Chinese restaurant to explain the rest to you.

So since you didn't bargain for this kind of post, I will leave you with a joke.

It is a joke my dad started to tell me once when I was too young to hear it.  Actually, he had no intention of telling me the joke.  He just started telling the joke so my mom would hear and scold him.  Ah, what a prankster, that dad.  Anyway, here's the joke:

There was this kid who had this one hand that was crippled up.  Crippled up real bad ...

"Fred!"

"I'm just kidding Carol, I wouldn't tell him that joke."

Then whispering to me, "When you're older."

So I never actually heard the joke.  Sorry.  Fine, I'll call him.  Hang on.

~~

I was actually a little surprised he remembered.  Not only the joke, but the exact incident.  He was surprised I remembered since I had no whole joke to go with it.  

"how do you remember that?" he asked.  

"Well, I've just always wondered what it was."

Also, I was wrong.  He fully intended on telling me the joke.  Mom just stopped him.

"So one night as the boy with the crippled hand went to bed, he got down on his knees and said, Dear Lord.  Please make my one hand like my other one."

Luke 6:6-10 (director's cut, alternate hilarious ending)

... and sceeeeeeeeeene.

I guess I won't give up yet

Earlier this week, I had this post all planned out.  It was going to say "I am discontinuing this site indefinitely."

Or maybe, "Until further notice."

It's been a tough week.

But I'm almost done whining about it, so I might as well get back to blogging and stuff (shit).

Back when the Big 12 was formed by adding four Texas teams to the Big Eight, the Nebraska/Texas games were so painful (for a Nebraska fan) to watch that some people began to "Hate Texas."

Maybe some people already hated Texas.  I bet if you asked most Nebraska fans, they'd say they've hated Texas since Pearl Jam played the ranch bowl - or maybe even Peony Park.

I've never hated Texas.  It's stupid to hate a state or a team because they are better than the one you root for.  That isn't really their fault.

I think Austin would probably be one damn cool place to live.  Lots of great music has come out of there.  There's Stevie Ray Vaughan.  Others.

I was in Dallas once. I didn't care for it that much.  To me it seemed like a huge boring Omaha type of a place.  But I didn't hate it.

I hate it now.  I don't hate Texas, per se.  But Dallas.  What a bunch of fucking morons.

I'm not too scared about the ebola thing, but seriously, how far up an ebola patient's ass is your head when you think it's ok to get on a plane after cleaning up some ebola vomit and poo (shit).  I mean she took her temperature and found that she had a fever - but got on the plane anyway.

Granted, I don't know if that's how it went down.  I haven't read much more than headlines about it (I rarely read more than headlines).  They did say she was running a fever before she got on the plane.  I assume they know that because she took her temperature.  I hope it wasn't a doctor or someone at TSA or something.  Although since the city of Dallas has proven that they can't do the one thing they're supposed to do (keep their ebola infected off of commercial flights), it wouldn't surprise me.

I did read (in a headline) that the nurse said nobody told her not to get on a plane.

In conclusion.  People from Dallas are stupid (stoopid).

If you are from Dallas, don't be too sad.  You're a team of brilliant physicists compared to the people of Phoenix Arizona.  Also, I'm pretty sure it's only those born and raised in Dallas that shine like a box of rocks.

But in Phoenix, every single resident is an idiot.  If that guy with ebola had gone to Phoenix, everybody in the world would be dead by now.


... And sceeeeene!

Freaks

Warning:  I'm going to use the word "circa" in this post.  I hate when people use the word "circa" so that's why I'm warning you.

I think it means "about."  Oh - I also hate when people say "begs the question,"  but if "circa" means "about",  it begs the question - Do Canadians also mispronounce "circa?"

Anywhos - I went to Lincoln yesterday to attend the Pearl Jam concert.  I'm not going to go on and on (right now) about how much I enjoy listening to Pearl Jam, particularly live performances.  I'm not going to "review" the concert.

I could never properly review a Pearl Jam concert.  It would be like: "It was awesomely awesome and kick ass and stuff."

I went last night unaware that I would be getting a much needed head conking.

I'm pretty sure from about (totally could use 'circa' here) 1950 to at least 1985, every movie where somebody had some temporary magical power, they got that power from being conked on the head.

Then all the hilarious hijinks would ensue until relationships were ruined.  The hero would realize the real gift was there all along.  Friends and family.  Sniff.  Unfortunately, the magical power had gone from a blessing to a curse.  Sniff.

Just as our hero was about to give up all hope of repairing his life, he'd get conked on the head again and the magical power would be gone.

~~

Pearl Jam Rocking, circa last night

I've always liked Pearl Jam.  I've considered them my favorite band for about 8 years or so.  I had heard them on the radio, circa 1992, but never really thought much until I saw them on Saturday Night Live, circa 1994.

But the real problem came in July of 2013.  I had been a fan club member for a few years just to get a shot at the sweet advance tickets the members get.

I "won" the lottery for 2 tickets to the show at Chicago's Wrigley field. I was pretty stoked about it.

But there was a problem after I got back into Omaha. It was like being conked on the head.  I became obsessed with Pearl Jam.  I have rarely listened to anything else these past 15 months.  At first, it wasn't that bad.  The family could tolerate it for a while.  Now, whenever we get into the car, I'm careful to turn the music off or change it to something else before the complaints come.

From about 9 seconds after the Chicago show was over, I was thinking, "I must see Pearl Jam again as soon as possible."

For me - as soon as possible means something completely different than it does to the freaks you're likely to meet at any Pearl Jam show.  To them, it means, let's drive straight from this concert for 10 hours or so and get into line at the next concert.  We can sleep on the sidewalk.  That way, we can see Pearl Jam again tomorrow!

No.  When I say "as soon as possible" I mean "next time they're in driving distance".  Driving distance being less than 4 hours.

Well I finally went again last night.  See my awesome review about how awesome it was above.

But thankfully - and it may be too early to tell for sure - I got the much needed and unexpected head conking.

It happened way before the show started.

Of all the people I know, I am way more a freak about these guys.  We got to Lincoln yesterday afternoon and got into line for merchandise.  The people immediately in front of us and behind us in line had all gone to the show the night before in Tulsa Oklahoma.  The guy behind us said that after the show, they went back to their hotel, showered and left for Lincoln.  They drove straight through to Lincoln and got into line at 9:30 A.M.  The slackers in front of us took a two hour nap before doing the same thing.

"How many shows are you going to this tour?"  one of the freaks asked me. Conk.

"Um - one,"  I replied.  Which to me seems like the correct number of shows to go to.  I loved the show last night, but I wouldn't want to see them again for at least a year. Honestly though, I think it's time we start seeing other people.  I no longer feel the need to remain exclusive.

Various freaks all day and night kept saying things like, "How many shows have you been to?"

I kept saying, "This is my second,"  all the while realizing there is something seriously wrong with these people.  For one thing, they were asking only because they wanted to say "37" or "54" or "209!"

I toyed with the idea of saying something like "12 more than Eddie Vedder,"  but in the end, I just didn't want to be around them anymore.  They were really creeping me out.

So that's a problem, I guess.  Actually, I'm overstating it.  I didn't mind the uber fans.  In fact, we all had a ton of fun. I was just shocked imagining the time and money these people commit to this singular endeavor.

While I've been listening to mostly Pearl Jam for the last 15 months, I knew I should mix it up a little more.  It was an unhealthy music addiction.

Last night at about 11:30 P.M., I got into the car for the drive back to Omaha.  I immediately switched from "Pearl Jam Live at Uniondale NY 4/30/2003" to "Danny & Dusty,  The Lost Weekend."

It is probably fitting that Shim turned me on to "Danny & Dusty" a few years back.  Shim hates Pearl Jam.

I was right conked indeed.  I can listen to other music now.  Whew.  Thanks freaks.

The Race is on

No not that race.  The other one.  I did sign up for a race on Sunday.  I think I will sign up for the races on next weekend as well.  Those are on Saturday and Sunday.  It was funny when I signed up for the one on Sunday because when it's road racing I always wait until the last minute before I decide not to race.

I do this because I don't want to road race in shitty weather (rain).  The great thing about cross is the weather is supposed to be shitty.  So I signed up for Sunday's race without checking the forecast.

Also, I signed up for Jingle cross.  I reserved a motel room too.  I can back out of it if I decide to make other arrangements, but it's 1.6 miles from the Jingle Cross site so ...

When I say "Make other arrangements,"  I mean my brother lives in Amana.  Amana is a pretty cool place.  It is filled with old fashioned German shit.  It's all family style restaurants and wine and beer.

Whenever I tell someone about going to my brother's house, they always say, "oh yeah - that's an Amish community isn't it?"

Then I always say "No.  You're thinking of something else."

If I say to you "You're thinking of something else,"  what I actually mean is "You are stupid."

The problem is Amana is about 25 miles from Jingle cross.  Actually, that is no problem at all.  I will definitely visit my brother if he's in town during Jingle cross, but I may sleep in the motel room I reserved.

I have a confession to make.  Not that you haven't noticed or anything, but I still must confess (it's my Catholic upbringing).  I wasn't brought up Catholic, I just grew up in the St. Cecilia's Cathedral area.  Actually, we went to a little church right next to St. Cecilia's Cathedral.  It was on 39th and Cuming.  It was called Calvary Baptist Church.  Back then, I thought Calvary meant "Soldiers on Horseback" but this isn't entirely my fault.  My dad pronounces both words exactly the same way.

Not that he ever went to Church with us.  Well, maybe twice.  But normally, he stayed at home on Sunday mornings.  Mom made us go with her.  Well - she rarely made us go to the actual church service, but we had to go to Sunday School.

The confession?  Just a minute.  I'm getting to it.

After Sunday school, mom would usually let us skip Church and go over to Grandma Surber's house.  That was wonderful.  All we had to do was be careful not to break her Thermos.

For years, I thought that the vacuum bottles made of glass had superior heat retaining qualities than the unbreakable ones.  Otherwise, why on earth would anyone have a stupid plastic thermos with a breakable glass interior?

I now think they must have been a lot cheaper or something because they don't really keep stuff warm any better than the unbreakable kind.

Mom went to a Sunday School bible study class before church.  It was called S.A.M.  That stood for "Singles and Married."  There was another study group down the hall from The "SAMmers"  It was a small dark damp room with no windows.  Not even on the door.  This group was called 'Group D' and was just a place where the Divorced members of the congregation could go and amplify their shame together.

Mom always took a thermos full of coffee to S.A.M.  But it was not allowed in the actual Church service.  So if Steve and I went over to Grandma's house, mom would have us take her thermos with us.  She gave us a stern warning every week.  "Don't drop it or the glass inside will break."

We took this seriously, because the last thing we wanted was for mom to drink a cup of coffee full of broken glass.  I think I somehow thought that it would break and nobody would notice until mom was clutching at her severed throat.

So we were careful.  Whenever we threw it to the ground, we always made sure it landed harmlessly in a mound of fluffy snow or a pile of leaves (depending on the season).

Once we got to grandma's house, we told her we had stomach aches. Pepto Bismol was the closest thing Grandma had to candy and we couldn't get enough of the pink stuff.  Yummy.

When I watch my kids now, pinching their noses and choking down about 3/4 of the recommended dosage before insisting they can take no more, I realize we spoil them.  "Back when I was your age, we chugged Pepto for its deliciousness.  You kids today, with your Oreo cookies and whatnot ..."

Oh yeah - the confession.  "Bless me Father for I have nothing to say.  What?  Two Hail Marys.  You know I  recently hurt my shoulder, right?"  (What the hell is Cube talking about - Shim).

I seem to have strayed off course.  Maybe I should investigate these things I've just typed and make a few separate posts out of them.  Naaaah.

Anyway - the race is on.  No not that race.  The other one.

Of course I'm talking about the race back to mediocrity.  I have lost some fitness over the last few weeks and have little time to get back to where I was. Honestly though, I wasn't really in that great of shape before all of the interruptions.  The nice thing is the time off has kind of recharged my desire to ride.

I think I'll just go ahead and sign up for next week's cross races now.  You talked me into it.  Thanks for that.  I was going to wait until after Sunday and see how it goes.  I was going to wait until I had secured the proper freedom.  I was going to wait to see how much the Pearl Jam Concert 2 days before the first Bellevue race takes out of me.  But no.  I'll just sign up now.

Did I mention that the race is on?

Like this one:

And this one (I signed up for Saturday too, but I was the only one.  At least EOB is with me on Sunday):

Monday Extra: Climbing Monster. Now with fewer puns.

Barry knows full well how much I despise puns.  My last post grated against my soul, but it was late Thursday evening and I was sitting beside a pool on a beautiful evening, typing away at my laptop.  When I got the idea to make a stupid pun, I laughed.  Not at the pun, but at how awful a thing that was to do to the people nice enough to read these ramblings.  I thought of it as sort of a "No Soap, Radio" at the time.  Now I'm just sorry.  It won't happen again (it will).

So here's a makeup post:

Two (2) Friday's ago, Spence informed me that a bunch of them were meeting Saturday morning at the Flying J. We (the family) were taking a plane to Orlando that morning, so I said, "I'll be out of town.  Next time."

The thing here is I am happy Spence has been giving me a heads up on rides lately. After we got into town, I got a message that he was going to do the Bike Masters ride.  I figured I'd better go. I don't think I would have ridden at all since a week of eating restaurant (mostly buffets) food after about 3 weeks of injury related inactivity left me feeling a bit sluggish.

 When I pulled into Bike Masters parking lot, there were maybe 30 people there.  Maybe more.   I got out of the car and started getting ready.   "Do we have any new people here today,"  somebody shouted.  I ignored it.  I just kind of wanted to slip into the ride without any sort of "My name is Fred and I'm an alcoholic."

After nobody confessed to being "a new person,"  - I mean, if anything, I'm an old person - somebody called me out specifically.  All eyes were on me.  I glanced over to Spence, who seemed to be enjoying this.

"I'm Fred in name and title,"  I said to a huge uproar of silence.  There are more crickets out there than you'd think. So we got rolling and after about 45 minutes or so, somebody came up to me and said, "So you're Fred, Huh?"

 "In name and t.., er. Yes I am."

At this point, I don't remember the name this person invoked because I was shocked by the content of the rest of the sentence:

" [Forgotten Name] says you're a climbing monster."

"You take that back, mister!" I snapped, figuring this guy was making fun of my poor fitness and slow, up the hill advancing technique.

"No really.  I thought you looked big for a climber, but after that last hill, I saw what [ Forgotten Name ] was talking about."

"Perception is a funny thing," was all I could muster.

Observation(s) about 4 weeks off the bike:  It makes you slow.

The Cocky Giraffe

Once upon a time, (I've been in Disney World for a week) there were 3 Giraffes (I've been in Disney World for a week).  They were the best of friends for as long as they could remember.  Their names were all stupid and cutesy sounding.  They probably even rhymed or some shit.  But that doesn't make any sense, so let's make them brothers.  Yeah, the giraffes were brothers.

Once upon a time (still in Disney) there were 3 giraffe brothers.  There names were Larry, Gary, and Terry.  Larry was the oldest and he was always trying to persuade his brothers to do things they weren't supposed to do.

Usually, Gary (the middle Giraffe) would have no part in it, but Terry (the youngest) was always trying to prove he was the toughest giraffe of all.  Through a series of increasingly dangerous challenges issued by his big brother, Terry had learned that attitude goes a long way.

By the time he was an adult giraffe, Terry had tangled with lions more times than he could remember.  The lions were actually afraid of Terry.  Any other giraffe would bolt at even a hint of sideways glance from any lion (even a girl one).  But Terry would shoot his patented cold giraffe look right back at them and they'd quickly look away, pretending to read the morning paper or something

There were stories that some of the younger lions (at their own folly) refused to believe.  Inevitably, some naive young cub would have a go at Terry.  The older lions would always get a huge laugh out of it.

Terry usually responded to one of these attacks the same way,  He'd begin running like he was trying to flee, then he'd start limping like he'd pulled up lame.  That would give the young lion a false sense of victory.  At the moment the lion lunged for the kill, Terry would dodge and drive those stupid little horns into the neck of the charging lion.  Shocked and humiliated, the lion would scurry away in disgrace.

Oh - also - I want to mention that I've spent the last week or so listening to my boys tell me all of their corny jokes.  Some they've heard from television.  Some they've learned from friends.  Some they've just made up.  These are the real gems.

Anyway, let me get on with this brief vacation post.  I apologize for the way it jumps around and stuff.  I have had very little time to work on it since we've been out "disneying" all week. I'd say this isn't actually a post at all.  It's more like a rough giraffe.

Dedicated to my sons.

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.