This week's post is below. But while I was trying to finish it, I was reminded of this from Patton Oswalt. Specifically the part where he talks about the writer had moments of doubt and worked through them. "What the fuck am I writing!! I'm putting my name on this piece of shit!"
It was when I was reading what I wrote tonight that I was reminded of this.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
YMMV
Note: Every word of this post is literally true. That's part of why it is so explosively boring. There is nothing here that did not happen. All facts have been verified. Enjoy your history lesson.
I think that stands for "Your Mileage May Vary," but it might be God's name in anglicized Hebrew, but horribly misspelld. [ sic ].
Few people know the origin of the catchy little phrase "Your mileage may vary."
Ask most people and they'll tell you it's something to do with cars or horses or something.
By the way, to the rest of the world except for those limey bastards like Sir Francis Harry Hinsley, the phrase is, "YKMV" (Your kilometerage may vary).
The phrase "Your mileage may vary," was first coined to describe the children's design drawing game, Spirograph. Because the commercials are/were so deceptive. I don't know if they still make Spirograph or if they still have commercials for it, but they used to. I don't remember the details of those commercials but whenever I try to recall what a Spirograph commercial was like, the "Lite-Brite" song pops into my head. It goes like this:
"Lite-Brite, makin' things with li-i-ight. What a sight, makin' things with Lite-Brite."
I'll explain that in a minute, but I'm getting off track. Which is to be expected, because that (getting off track) ALWAYS happens with Spirograph. Your mileage (kilometerage) may vary.
Back in 1970 or so, I saw a commercial for Spirograph. It was a Saturday morning not unlike (like) just about any other Saturday morning. I was sitting on the hardwood floor of the living room. I was watching Bugs Bunny or Bozo the Clown (Kidding - there was no Bozo the clown) on the 19 inch television. It was not a console TV exactly. It stood on four thin wooden legs. The box was a textured silver aluminum material. It seems to me like the TV sat against the North wall of the Living room, but what do I know from direction? Oy!
I was wearing my favorite footy pajamas. They were blue and I liked to keep them zipped all the way up and secure the zipper in place with the flannel fabric flap snapping mechanism.
A couple of my toes had broken through the fabric that made up the foot covering part of my comfy pajamas. The sole of the PJs was a brittle plastic that scratched the breaching toes. In my lap was a green plastic bowl. In the bowl were a few Apple Jack loops floating in roughly 6 ounces of orange milk. Apple Jacks was my favorite cereal.
A little bit of orangish milk had dripped onto my pajamas from the spoon.
When the Spirograph commercial came on, I knew I had to have it. I could think of nothing else until Christmas. It was obvious to me that the Spirograph would make me millions. It was my ticket out of that shithole. I could finally get me a good pair of footy pajamas with no milk on them.
Watching the miracle of the complex plastic gear things, guided by colored pen, I knew. I pictured my drawings adorning the walls of the great art museums of the world. I was going to improve on the Mona Lisa by giving her some big fancy Spirograph hoop earrings.
To say that I was disappointed with Spirograph would be the mother of all understatements. It was even more disappointing than the etch-a-sketch. Mostly because even though I was only about 6 years old, I understood the etch-a-sketch issues were due to operator error. I knew that with time and patience, I would never turn the dial the wrong way. The only thing disappointing about the etch-a-sketch was the ghost images. No matter how much you tried to shake it away, there would always be that trace of past failure glaring at you. Mocking you. Stupid etch-a-sketch.
But compared to the etch-a-sketch, Spirograph's functionality was literally* criminal.
Spirograph was a neat idea. A bunch of plastic template parts notched with teeth to guide other parts around. There were several holes in the wheels that went around the stationary pieces. The user would select a hole to stick a colored pen into and track the wheel along the other plastic piece, making intricate, beautiful colorful designs by the irregularity of the pen mark based on the hole selected for the pen.
Spirograph also came with a booklet of sample designs and the pieces you'd need. The holes for the pen were numbered, so you could know which one to use for a specific design.
This was my favorite part of spirograph. The instructions. They worked better than any of the rest of this piece of shit.
They would say something like, "For this pattern, use wheel 7 in loop B14 and hole 110."
But the problems began before pen was set to paper. First of all, the stationary piece was to be pinned to the paper. Yeah. A couple of holes right next to my design. There was a piece of cardboard that the paper would go on. Once you got everything set just right, it was time to nudge the pen around. But it never ever went smoothly. There would always be a point were the wheel would skip some teeth. I came close to perfection a few times. Only to have the Mona Lisa's earrings ruined by a stray jagged red pen mark made from when the wheel lost its traction.
I worked at it with increasing frustration for several days. There were piles of crumpled paper on either side of my workstation. Mother beckoned for me to retire for the evening.
"Not until my opus is complete!" I'd scream as she cowered away from the coffee cup I'd flung in her direction. "And don't let my cup get empty again!!" I'd shout. Boy, I was a handful.
After days of failure, gallons of coffee and teeth yellowed from chain smoking (I was 6. It was the 70's), I heard from the other room what was to become my emancipation.
It was a happy little song that changed my life. It was soft at first, but grew in volume as I was tugged from my concentration to the siren call of "Lite-Brite, Makin' things with li-i-ight. What a sight, makin' things with Lite-Brite!"
Oh yes. We got the refills. I made the rooster. I made Bugs Bunny. I made Bozo the Clown. I then created my true master work. Free hand. See, Lite-Brite came with blanks too. No pattern. Just your very own creation. Mine was a brilliant rendering of a little boy gathering all the Spirographs in the world and making a huge bonfire outside Spirograph Corporate HQ. All the Spirograph execs were out on the lawn choking to death on the toxic fumes from the epic holocaust. Their wives and children screaming and clawing at their own faces in utter torment. A crowd of unruly onlookers is held at bay by police. The crowd cheers the fall of the Spirograph execs who once stood so tall and mighty.
I'm proud to say, that particular work stands to this day next to the Mona Lisa in the Louvre or something.
* Literally no longer means literally. The impact to our language is literally devastating.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Steel-Cut Extra: In case Barry doesn't post.
He "says" he's going to Colorado, so he may not have a blog entry this week. I won't believe it unless I see it ...
Every time I go to Colorado, I think of the first time. I remember the same old things. It was the first time we had a family
vacation. Before that, my parents had
left my brother and me with grandparents. This time, we got to go with them.
It was a long drive and we were pretty young. Dad didn’t know how we’d do in the car for
the many hours of driving so he made sure our ipads tablets gameboys
coloring books were ready as a distraction.
As it turned out, dad, a professional driver, was
entertaining enough to keep the drive less boring. Also, mom read to us. I believe it was “Charlie and the Chocolate
Factory” for one of the earlier trips.
Once, when we were a little older, she read “Amityville Horror.” That was a wildy popular book back then on
the power of its claim “Based on a True Story.”
There were a lot of books “Based on a True Story,”
but this was the first time I was aware that “Based on a True Story” could also mean “Complete Bullshit.”
When mom read “Amityville
Horror” to us on family vacation, we were old enough that we got a good laugh out of it. We laughed at
how stupid the Lutz’s were. First for
hanging around in a creepy house for as long as they did. Then for claiming all that crap actually
happened.
In the end, we had nothing but admiration for this
brave family. Willing to stick to their
guns and swear that all that stuff really happened even though it was obviously
garbage (probably what attracted all the flies). They deserved every cent they
made off that book.
But I’m jumping ahead.
On the way to Colorado the first time, dad frequently boasted about his
superhuman eyesight. When we were still
about 200 miles or so from Colorado, he asked us if we could see the
mountains. We thought we could and he
asked us to point them out.
“Over there on the left, I think I see one,” I said. Steve agreed, “Yeah, I see it too.”
“Sorry boys, those are just distant clouds. When you see the mountains, you’ll know
it. I see them right now because I have
super-vision. In fact, I can see the
Colorado sign at the border.”
“There’s no sign,” we argued.
“Well, you can’t see it yet because you don’t have
super-vision, but it says 'Welcome to Colorful Colorado'. You’ll see when we get there in about 3
hours.”
He could tell we didn’t believe him so he said, “I’ll tell
you what. I can prove it. You point out any car on the road and I’ll read the state name and motto printed on the license plate. I know when you’ll be able to read it, so I’ll read it to you way before then to prove to you I have super-vision.”
Now dad's day job was truck driver so he knew by color or design all of the different state license plates. He knew all of the mottoes too. But we didn't know that. We ended up just thinking he had super-vision.
It was amazing. While each license plate was still a blur to us, he’d call out “Oklahoma is O.K.”
or “Missouri, the show-me state.”
Once he had proved he had super-vision, he told us this joke:
So there was this guy who moved to Missouri. He didn’t yet know that Missouri was the
show-me state. One day he went into the
grocery store to get some dog food. At the
check-out counter, the clerk asked him why he needed dog food. He thought that the clerk must be an idiot,
but he told the guy he needed the dog food for his dog. The clerk didn’t believe the guy had a dog and
refused to sell the dog food to him.
He said, “If you really have a dog, ‘Show me.’ ”
So the man had to go back home and get his dog to show the
clerk who then happily sold the dog food and wished the man a nice day.
The next day, the guy realized he’d forgotten to get cat food for
his cat. The same stuff from above
happened (but with a cat). "If you have a cat, 'show me.' "
The guy began
to suspect that these people in Missouri don’t believe anything without some
sort of visual evidence.
So a few days later he trudged into the grocery store
holding a brown paper bag, stained dark and dripping. He set the sloppy mess down on the counter along with some
toilet paper and Pepto-Bismol.
Happy Friday and thanks for reading about diarrhea in a leaky paper bag!
Thursday, May 22, 2014
The Hinsley Challenge
For as long as I can remember, my initial reaction to anything my dad says is that he's either mistaken or full of shit. Sometimes, it's a little of both. But the truth is, he usually knows what he's talking about. Also - he's usually making up some lie just for sport.
Dad is 69 years old now and a couple of years ago, he told me of "The Hinsley Challenge."
He didn't call it that. That's what I call it. It is a challenge that as a Hinsley, I have no choice but to accept.
He told me that no Hinsley man ever in the history of Hinsleys has lived to the age of 75.
Not only do I doubt this is true, I doubt there would be any way to prove it without Goggling [ sic ] "Hinsley".
Ok, so Sir Francis Harry Hinsley (no relation) from England or something lived past 75. But that's obviously not what dad meant. If I told dad this, he'd probably say something like "You little smartass. That doesn't count because living as a Limey is no way to live."
So I should probably stick with American Hinsleys then ...
Oops:
So there's one right there.
Well dad would certainly bristle at this observation as well, "You know what I mean you little smartass. I'm talking about our relatives. Not ZZ Top's Grandpa (Robert B. Hinsley was from Texas).
Ok dad, but that's not what you said ...
"Fine. Let me change my statement so you're not confused. No Hinsley man that is one of my direct ancestors or his brothers has ever lived to be 75. Smartass."
Fair enough. John Powel Hinsley - you sonofabitch. Now granted, from everything I read, he died well before he was born (1932-1918), but I think that's just because people who do these ancestry things are stupid. I'm not talking about the Mormons here. I'm talking about the Hinsleys. So calm down, JWait.
Also - I had to skim through tons of dead Hinsleys younger than 75 to find this guy. So dad's point is starting to look valid.
John Powel Hinsley was my Great Great Great Grandfather's brother. Since he was obviously born in 1832, he lived to be 85. He almost made it to 86. But I'm uneasy about the "1832" assumption. It seems reasonable, but who knows.
But honestly - Who cares about John Powel Hinsley? What dad means by his factoid - is starting with his Grandpa Charlie, no male descendants have lived to be 75.
Charlie had 20 kids (2 wives) in his 53 years on earth. Thirteen boys and seven girls.
Charlie was originally from Missouri (The show-me state). He was my Great Grandpa. His second wife, Lula Bean of Oklahoma, was my Great Grandmother. They had 15 kids together that they know about, hardy har har.
Ok yeah - so Charlie's sons are all dead now and none of them lived to be 75.
So far - neither have any of Charlie's grandsons. My Dad is one. Personally, I think he's got a shot, but he doesn't seem to think so. He sometimes acts like it's fate that he has somewhere less than 6 years left to live.
The Hinsleys also had another thing in common. Rough lives. Lots of drinking. Lots of eating. Lots of fighting. Scant personal hygiene.
When I first heard my dad make the "Hinsley Challenge" statement, my reaction was "Don't be silly."
Of course anything could happen at any time to any of us, but some things are more likely than others. As much as I see his challenge as nothing more than a silly superstition, I wouldn't want to find myself in his position 20 years from now.
Telling Jack and Abe, "You know, no Hinsley man ..."
If my dad reaches that magic number (I think he will), I'm still not that excited about, "Your grandpa is the only Hinsley man to ever ..."
I don't know if I'm next in line after my dad or not. I don't know many of my relatives. There might be some older than me. There probably are, but as far as I know, I'm it after dad*. If he would just go ahead and not die for at least another 6 years, that would take a lot of pressure off of me. Speaking of pressure. I think I'll call him and tell him that right now. He needs to stay alive so I don't carry that burden into my old age. But then if I caused him so much anxiety his health deteriorated - woah - that would be ironic.
What would be cool is if I reach the age of 75 and he's still kicking. I could call him and scream into the phone at the 95 year old, "Told you dad!!!"
"Who's this?"
"It's Freddie!! I told you!!! I'm 75! I made it! There are now twice as many of us, old man!"
"Sorry. Who's this? I can't hear a thing."
"What about your eyesight? Can you still read signs from 200 miles away?"
"Smartass!" click.
*Quiet, Jeff. Facts will only get in the way.
Dad is 69 years old now and a couple of years ago, he told me of "The Hinsley Challenge."
He didn't call it that. That's what I call it. It is a challenge that as a Hinsley, I have no choice but to accept.
He told me that no Hinsley man ever in the history of Hinsleys has lived to the age of 75.
Not only do I doubt this is true, I doubt there would be any way to prove it without Goggling [ sic ] "Hinsley".
 |
| Challenge completed. 79, bitches! |
So I should probably stick with American Hinsleys then ...
Oops:
 |
| Robert B. Hinsley 1825-1905 |
So there's one right there.
Well dad would certainly bristle at this observation as well, "You know what I mean you little smartass. I'm talking about our relatives. Not ZZ Top's Grandpa (Robert B. Hinsley was from Texas).
Ok dad, but that's not what you said ...
"Fine. Let me change my statement so you're not confused. No Hinsley man that is one of my direct ancestors or his brothers has ever lived to be 75. Smartass."
Fair enough. John Powel Hinsley - you sonofabitch. Now granted, from everything I read, he died well before he was born (1932-1918), but I think that's just because people who do these ancestry things are stupid. I'm not talking about the Mormons here. I'm talking about the Hinsleys. So calm down, JWait.
Also - I had to skim through tons of dead Hinsleys younger than 75 to find this guy. So dad's point is starting to look valid.
John Powel Hinsley was my Great Great Great Grandfather's brother. Since he was obviously born in 1832, he lived to be 85. He almost made it to 86. But I'm uneasy about the "1832" assumption. It seems reasonable, but who knows.
But honestly - Who cares about John Powel Hinsley? What dad means by his factoid - is starting with his Grandpa Charlie, no male descendants have lived to be 75.
Charlie had 20 kids (2 wives) in his 53 years on earth. Thirteen boys and seven girls.
Charlie was originally from Missouri (The show-me state). He was my Great Grandpa. His second wife, Lula Bean of Oklahoma, was my Great Grandmother. They had 15 kids together that they know about, hardy har har.
Ok yeah - so Charlie's sons are all dead now and none of them lived to be 75.
So far - neither have any of Charlie's grandsons. My Dad is one. Personally, I think he's got a shot, but he doesn't seem to think so. He sometimes acts like it's fate that he has somewhere less than 6 years left to live.
The Hinsleys also had another thing in common. Rough lives. Lots of drinking. Lots of eating. Lots of fighting. Scant personal hygiene.
When I first heard my dad make the "Hinsley Challenge" statement, my reaction was "Don't be silly."
Of course anything could happen at any time to any of us, but some things are more likely than others. As much as I see his challenge as nothing more than a silly superstition, I wouldn't want to find myself in his position 20 years from now.
Telling Jack and Abe, "You know, no Hinsley man ..."
If my dad reaches that magic number (I think he will), I'm still not that excited about, "Your grandpa is the only Hinsley man to ever ..."
I don't know if I'm next in line after my dad or not. I don't know many of my relatives. There might be some older than me. There probably are, but as far as I know, I'm it after dad*. If he would just go ahead and not die for at least another 6 years, that would take a lot of pressure off of me. Speaking of pressure. I think I'll call him and tell him that right now. He needs to stay alive so I don't carry that burden into my old age. But then if I caused him so much anxiety his health deteriorated - woah - that would be ironic.
What would be cool is if I reach the age of 75 and he's still kicking. I could call him and scream into the phone at the 95 year old, "Told you dad!!!"
"Who's this?"
"It's Freddie!! I told you!!! I'm 75! I made it! There are now twice as many of us, old man!"
"Sorry. Who's this? I can't hear a thing."
"What about your eyesight? Can you still read signs from 200 miles away?"
"Smartass!" click.
*Quiet, Jeff. Facts will only get in the way.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
If you have to go to Kentucky, you're lost already.
Earlier this week, somewhere on Facebook or something, somebody posted a guide for commuting via bike to work. The reason - this week or month or day is international or national or regional ride your squeaky-ass bike to work day or week or month or something.
It's hard to keep track of all of them. In April, there was this "30 days of riding." I only know about it because I saw several photos on the FB of people's bikes out in the weather. These people were taking the 30 day challenge. They'd post the photo of their bike with some comment like "Hey - I only got out for 0.27 miles because of all the wind/snow/rain, but it counts.
No, it doesn't count. Well yeah, I mean technically, you did "ride" your "bike." But the only reason you rode it is because you were bound by some arbitrary invention of FB to ride every day in April.
So what?
Now, this Month/Week/Day comes along and it is ride your bike to work Month/Week/Day.
Before, I continue, I'd like to say I think it's great that people are out there doing stuff to encourage the community to ride more and blah blah fuckity blah. Yeah - I don't really give a shit if you ride or not.
I'm not saying I don't care about you, I'm just saying I don't care if you ride your bike or not. Also - I don't care about you.
Unless there's some way to know that you were the asshole yesterday who "buzzed the tower." That's what I call it when a Big SUV decides to go by a cyclist at around 50 MPH leaving roughly 6 inches of clearance. This happens often. I am rarely riding in a situation where the traffic doesn't have all kinds of room. But these a-holes feel the need to either scare me or teach me a lesson or something.
Well congrats, a-holes. It does scare me. I will not be taught any lesson by a dipshit though so you're on your own there, I'm afraid.
But if you ever decide to heave your ample shanks over a top tube and go for a spin, I'd be delighted to ride with you and talk about whatever topic you desire. Just make sure you let me know that the day before, you put me in mortal danger with your ridiculous antics. We'll laugh and laugh about it, for sure.
I agree that the more people ride, the more it benefits me. So that's cool. But I didn't come here to wish and hope for a brighter bicycling future, a healthy community and a greener planet. I came here to bitch for no reason other than it is about the easiest way to spill words onto a page.
The benefits of commuting by bike:
1) There is the fuel/money saving thing.
2) Exercise.
Did I miss any? I don't think so. I think that's about it.
I will say that the experience of commuting on a peaceful route beats the crap out of any car commute where there's lots of traffic involved. My morning drive takes me south, down 72nd street for several miles. It's all aggressive, stupid dangerous driving. Very stressful.
When I bike commute, it's mostly on the trail, and it's a quiet, peaceful time. Huge difference. I'm always in a better mood when I arrive at work by bike.
Honestly though, there are a whole bunch of good reasons not to bike commute. They are sprinkled in with the guide I mentioned earlier and am going to skim over here in a minute.
Whatever "peacefulness" I get, the truth is I only commute by bike for one of the 2 reasons I listed above. Exercise. Integrating riding with my commute saves me a little time. That's why I commute when I don't have a big group ride or the weather is not wet. I already have all the bike stuff. I know what I'm doing. There is not that much difference between getting ready to go on a ride or bike commuting, so that time would be spent either way.
Some people are dedicated commuters. They ride in the rain. They ride in the snow and ice. These situations generally go against my reason for commuting. Exercise. On those days, I can get on the rollers for an hour. Not too fun, but it suits me better.
So in the winter I can usually get in 1 or 2 commutes a week. In the spring/summer/fall anywhere from 3 to 5, depending on what life/weather is doing.
I rode in on Tuesday and Wednesday this week. I had reasons for not riding today or Monday. Monday, it rained. When I ride in the rain, I end up spending more time cleaning the bike, particularly the rims and brake pads, for too long to get the time saving benefit of integrating my commute with my daily exercise.
On Tuesday, a girl that works with me at the company came up to my cube to tell me that Friday was ride your bike to work day. I thought this was interesting because I didn't know there was a specific day. I had only heard that this was ride your bike to work week and maybe it is ride your bike to work month.
I asked her if she was going to ride her bike to work. She said no but that she wanted me to know so I could make sure to ride my bike to work on Friday.
I thanked her for the information. I'm sure she will ask me on Friday if I rode my bike in and she will whine a little bit if I don't. I'm pretty sure she will be let down if I don't ride my bike to work on Friday after she already told me that Friday was the designated day and I often ride in on unsanctioned days.
If I ride in tomorrow, she'll get some sort of credit for it. It might be as simple as being able to have a nice Friday night dinner with friends and family. "Pass the beans and I know a guy who rode his bike to work today ..."
Gasps of amazement will be heard 'round the dinner table. "Tell us more about this. Tommy, go and get the others. Aunt Janice has a story about a guy who rode his bike to work on ride your bike to work day."
But it looks like I took tomorrow off to prepare for a huge party we're having at 4PM Saturday. Come on over. It'll be a blast. Seriously. It's my daughter's graduation from college party. What? You didn't know that's a thing? Well it is, so get your ass over here and enjoy some pulled pork.
Anyway - the bike commute guide I've been mentioning is here:
http://www.louisvilleky.gov/BikeLouisville/commuting_excuses.htm
This is a link to the FB post I read earlier this week. I couldn't find the original FB post, so I went searching "Goggle" [sic] for it and found it had been lifted from Louisville Kentucky dot gov.
It is intended as an answer to the many excuses people have for not commuting by bike. Unfortunately, the excuses are better than the answers. I don't want to go through the whole thing, but I'll list a few examples (with my bulleted comments added in red) from the guide. Notably, every objection can be better answered with a careful application of the 'V'. For Munson: "The V" = "Harden the Fuck Up":
I ’m out of shape
Last March, I came in second place in a race. I think it cost $25 to enter the race. I probably spent many thousand dollars (directly and indirectly) to get to the fitness and the gear I needed for the race. A couple of days ago, this arrived in the mail. It only took it about 7 weeks to get here, but now I know what it's all for:
I have to get paid, as the kids used to say.
Finally - if you want the real answers to the Kentucky's bike commuter excuse list, here they are...
It's hard to keep track of all of them. In April, there was this "30 days of riding." I only know about it because I saw several photos on the FB of people's bikes out in the weather. These people were taking the 30 day challenge. They'd post the photo of their bike with some comment like "Hey - I only got out for 0.27 miles because of all the wind/snow/rain, but it counts.
No, it doesn't count. Well yeah, I mean technically, you did "ride" your "bike." But the only reason you rode it is because you were bound by some arbitrary invention of FB to ride every day in April.
So what?
Now, this Month/Week/Day comes along and it is ride your bike to work Month/Week/Day.
Before, I continue, I'd like to say I think it's great that people are out there doing stuff to encourage the community to ride more and blah blah fuckity blah. Yeah - I don't really give a shit if you ride or not.
I'm not saying I don't care about you, I'm just saying I don't care if you ride your bike or not. Also - I don't care about you.
Unless there's some way to know that you were the asshole yesterday who "buzzed the tower." That's what I call it when a Big SUV decides to go by a cyclist at around 50 MPH leaving roughly 6 inches of clearance. This happens often. I am rarely riding in a situation where the traffic doesn't have all kinds of room. But these a-holes feel the need to either scare me or teach me a lesson or something.
Well congrats, a-holes. It does scare me. I will not be taught any lesson by a dipshit though so you're on your own there, I'm afraid.
But if you ever decide to heave your ample shanks over a top tube and go for a spin, I'd be delighted to ride with you and talk about whatever topic you desire. Just make sure you let me know that the day before, you put me in mortal danger with your ridiculous antics. We'll laugh and laugh about it, for sure.
I agree that the more people ride, the more it benefits me. So that's cool. But I didn't come here to wish and hope for a brighter bicycling future, a healthy community and a greener planet. I came here to bitch for no reason other than it is about the easiest way to spill words onto a page.
The benefits of commuting by bike:
1) There is the fuel/money saving thing.
2) Exercise.
Did I miss any? I don't think so. I think that's about it.
I will say that the experience of commuting on a peaceful route beats the crap out of any car commute where there's lots of traffic involved. My morning drive takes me south, down 72nd street for several miles. It's all aggressive, stupid dangerous driving. Very stressful.
When I bike commute, it's mostly on the trail, and it's a quiet, peaceful time. Huge difference. I'm always in a better mood when I arrive at work by bike.
Honestly though, there are a whole bunch of good reasons not to bike commute. They are sprinkled in with the guide I mentioned earlier and am going to skim over here in a minute.
Whatever "peacefulness" I get, the truth is I only commute by bike for one of the 2 reasons I listed above. Exercise. Integrating riding with my commute saves me a little time. That's why I commute when I don't have a big group ride or the weather is not wet. I already have all the bike stuff. I know what I'm doing. There is not that much difference between getting ready to go on a ride or bike commuting, so that time would be spent either way.
Some people are dedicated commuters. They ride in the rain. They ride in the snow and ice. These situations generally go against my reason for commuting. Exercise. On those days, I can get on the rollers for an hour. Not too fun, but it suits me better.
So in the winter I can usually get in 1 or 2 commutes a week. In the spring/summer/fall anywhere from 3 to 5, depending on what life/weather is doing.
I rode in on Tuesday and Wednesday this week. I had reasons for not riding today or Monday. Monday, it rained. When I ride in the rain, I end up spending more time cleaning the bike, particularly the rims and brake pads, for too long to get the time saving benefit of integrating my commute with my daily exercise.
On Tuesday, a girl that works with me at the company came up to my cube to tell me that Friday was ride your bike to work day. I thought this was interesting because I didn't know there was a specific day. I had only heard that this was ride your bike to work week and maybe it is ride your bike to work month.
I asked her if she was going to ride her bike to work. She said no but that she wanted me to know so I could make sure to ride my bike to work on Friday.
I thanked her for the information. I'm sure she will ask me on Friday if I rode my bike in and she will whine a little bit if I don't. I'm pretty sure she will be let down if I don't ride my bike to work on Friday after she already told me that Friday was the designated day and I often ride in on unsanctioned days.
If I ride in tomorrow, she'll get some sort of credit for it. It might be as simple as being able to have a nice Friday night dinner with friends and family. "Pass the beans and I know a guy who rode his bike to work today ..."
Gasps of amazement will be heard 'round the dinner table. "Tell us more about this. Tommy, go and get the others. Aunt Janice has a story about a guy who rode his bike to work on ride your bike to work day."
But it looks like I took tomorrow off to prepare for a huge party we're having at 4PM Saturday. Come on over. It'll be a blast. Seriously. It's my daughter's graduation from college party. What? You didn't know that's a thing? Well it is, so get your ass over here and enjoy some pulled pork.
Anyway - the bike commute guide I've been mentioning is here:
http://www.louisvilleky.gov/BikeLouisville/commuting_excuses.htm
This is a link to the FB post I read earlier this week. I couldn't find the original FB post, so I went searching "Goggle" [sic] for it and found it had been lifted from Louisville Kentucky dot gov.
It is intended as an answer to the many excuses people have for not commuting by bike. Unfortunately, the excuses are better than the answers. I don't want to go through the whole thing, but I'll list a few examples (with my bulleted comments added in red) from the guide. Notably, every objection can be better answered with a careful application of the 'V'. For Munson: "The V" = "Harden the Fuck Up":
I ’m out of shape
- Ride at an easy pace; in a few months you will be in great shape.
- No - you will not be in great shape from a few months of easy riding. That is known as a Kentucky lie.
It takes too long
- The average commuter travels at 10 mph; the more you ride, the faster you will become.
- Trips of less than three miles will be quicker by bike.
- So let's see. You live 2.5 miles from work and it takes you more than 15 Minutes to drive there. This statement is known in Kentucky as a lie.
It’s too far
- Try riding to work and taking mass transit home, then alternating the next day.
- Combine riding and mass transit to shorten your commute.
- Ride to a coworker’s house and carpool to work.
- Hey Bob - I'm getting into shape during ride your bike to work week. Will you please give my sweaty ass a ride to work? I'll just leave my bike here.
It’s raining
- Fenders for your bike and raingear for your body will keep you dry.
- If you are at work, take transit or carpool to get home; ride home the next day.
- Take transit or drive if you don’t have the gear to ride comfortably in the rain.
- I love the third one: "We don't know. Just fucking drive or something if it's raining." This is exactly not answering an excuse.
The roads aren’t safe
- Obey traffic signs, ride on the right, signal turns, and stop at lights.
- Wear bright clothing.
- You are at no greater risk than driving a car.
- And by "no greater risk" we mean to say, It's "opposite day" in Kentucky.
Last March, I came in second place in a race. I think it cost $25 to enter the race. I probably spent many thousand dollars (directly and indirectly) to get to the fitness and the gear I needed for the race. A couple of days ago, this arrived in the mail. It only took it about 7 weeks to get here, but now I know what it's all for:
I have to get paid, as the kids used to say.
Finally - if you want the real answers to the Kentucky's bike commuter excuse list, here they are...
I ’m out of shape
- Harden The Fuck Up.
It takes too long
- Harden The Fuck Up.
It’s too far
- Harden The Fuck Up.
No bike parking
- Harden The Fuck Up.
My bike is beat up
- Harden The Fuck Up.
No showers
- Harden The Fuck Up.
I have to dress up
- Harden The Fuck Up.
It’s raining
- Harden The Fuck Up.
The roads aren’t safe
- Harden The Fuck Up.
I have to run errands
- Harden The Fuck Up.
Thursday, May 08, 2014
charlie the perv
I've recently learned that someone I know is into child pornography. As sickening as that is, I realized that it made sense in a way. I was shocked when I accidentally found out. A couple of moments later, I realized that this is a person that I've despised for a long time, but didn't know why. Some people just give you the creeps.
To me, what's crazy about this is how simply a child could be abducted. A trusted neighbor can snatch a little kid just like that. If Charlie had decided to keep me, there's nothing anybody could have done about it. I would have just disappeared. Maybe.
Maybe, he'd have been discovered. Maybe not. I like to think I'd have been rescued, but who knows. For whatever reason, Charlie decided not to follow through with whatever he had planned that day. I could actually feel the shift. When he changed his mind and returned to humanity and let me go. He sat in the chair as I bolted from his house, ashamed that I had done something terribly stupid.
When I got outside, there was still nobody around. I went home. Mom said she'd been looking for me. I sat on the floor in front of the television and watched my favorite show - Bewitched - while mom finished up the ironing. All in all, not a bad day.
Edit: Some additional thoughts/revelations ...
Before finding out about that guy I know who's into child pornography, I only thought of people who hurt children as non people who should without prejudice, be dispatched immediately to the other side.
Now - After considering this for a while - I think "Monster" is appropriate. Monster has a feeling that the person is not entirely in control of their actions, which I believe.
I think any action taken against the monster should be with the goal of protecting the children.
On the way into work today, I was thinking how easily children believe in monsters. I was realizing this potentially plays a role in protecting them. What is a Monster if not some overpowering force that acts based on it's twisted nature. Yeah - pervs are monsters.
Also - true story: When I was little, I thought the song "This old man, he played one ..." was literally about Charlie. I thought "this old man came rolling home" referred to the big hill out in front of his house that we always used to roll down.
Later I thought I knew what "played knick-knack on my knee" was ...
I'm not ready to openly talk about this guy. I've already written all about it, but the time is not right.
I will talk about my own brush with a pedophile.
I was 6 years old. There was a very nice old man who lived across the street. His name was Charlie. He's dead now. Well, either that or he's 120 years old.
Anyway, all the neighbor kids would play in Charlie's yard. It was a huge downhill from his house to the street. We would often climb the stairs to near his house and roll down his hill. Great fun.
And old Charlie was the nicest old man. He always was friendly and gave us treats. He was never grumpy like all the other old men. He let us play in his yard for God's sake!
 |
| Everybody. Say Perrrrrrrrrv! |
Charlie's house is straight across from this porch. It can't be seen in this photo, but that's where it was.
So my sister was not born yet. She was on the way and we were going to move. The duplex would not be big enough. Dad was ready to buy a house. Everybody in the neighborhood knew we were moving.
One day, old Charlie called to me while I was playing in his yard. He was so friendly. There was nobody else around. He said he wanted to tell me something. Ok, I thought. He said I should come into his house. I had never been into his house, but I figured he wanted to give me a present or something. I went in.
Once I got inside, he said we had to go down into the basement for what he wanted to tell me. I thought it was weird, and was a little scared, but it was Charlie. I followed him onto the basement.
Once we got downstairs, he led me to an old chair next to the furnace at the far end. He sat in the chair and told me to sit on his lap.
I sat on his lap and we were both facing the same direction. He started telling me how I was such a good boy and he was going to miss me once I moved. He put his arms around my chest and squeezed me to his. I had no idea what a boner was, but he had one. He was squeezing my butt and legs between his legs.
I knew something was wrong. I said my dad was going to take me fishing. At that, he must have remembered who my dad was. Most dads, upon hearing what had just happened would have promptly gone over and killed Charlie. My dad was way worse than most dads.
Charlie released me and said goodbye. Innocent enough. That was his cleverness. Nothing could be proved and it was good old charlie.
To me, what's crazy about this is how simply a child could be abducted. A trusted neighbor can snatch a little kid just like that. If Charlie had decided to keep me, there's nothing anybody could have done about it. I would have just disappeared. Maybe.
Maybe, he'd have been discovered. Maybe not. I like to think I'd have been rescued, but who knows. For whatever reason, Charlie decided not to follow through with whatever he had planned that day. I could actually feel the shift. When he changed his mind and returned to humanity and let me go. He sat in the chair as I bolted from his house, ashamed that I had done something terribly stupid.
When I got outside, there was still nobody around. I went home. Mom said she'd been looking for me. I sat on the floor in front of the television and watched my favorite show - Bewitched - while mom finished up the ironing. All in all, not a bad day.
Edit: Some additional thoughts/revelations ...
Before finding out about that guy I know who's into child pornography, I only thought of people who hurt children as non people who should without prejudice, be dispatched immediately to the other side.
Now - After considering this for a while - I think "Monster" is appropriate. Monster has a feeling that the person is not entirely in control of their actions, which I believe.
I think any action taken against the monster should be with the goal of protecting the children.
On the way into work today, I was thinking how easily children believe in monsters. I was realizing this potentially plays a role in protecting them. What is a Monster if not some overpowering force that acts based on it's twisted nature. Yeah - pervs are monsters.
Also - true story: When I was little, I thought the song "This old man, he played one ..." was literally about Charlie. I thought "this old man came rolling home" referred to the big hill out in front of his house that we always used to roll down.
Later I thought I knew what "played knick-knack on my knee" was ...
Thursday, May 01, 2014
Brigadier General George Barkington III
Earlier this evening, I was sitting at my desk trying to figure out what to write. This happens once a week. Every week. Well, not every week. Sometimes I actually have an idea of what to say before the deadline. Sometimes the whole thing is written before Thursday.
A few days ago, Rafal posted to his blog. It was a good read and you should check it out. He seems like a different person when he writes than when you talk to him - or rather listen to him - or rather get berated by him on the Facebook.
One thing he talked about was how quiet he noticed a lot of cyclists were during this Trans Iowa thing last weekend. He said that if they just wanted to look down and be quiet, fine. But they should know that Rafal's going to blab about any stupid little thing that comes to his mind.
Then I realized, he rides like I blog. And vice versa, or something.
So I was sitting here looking around for some inspiration. I thought maybe I should just call somebody and start shooting the breeze. A story would come to my mind in the process and I could write that down after I got off the phone.
That's when I looked over to the book shelf and saw good ol' Brigadier General George Barkington III.
Brigadier General George Barkington III is a ceramic bust of a highly decorated vet. Well it's a battery powered clock embedded into the "sculpture."
If you've ever been to Tuesday Morning, you probably know where he came from. Now all you need to know is why.
Every Christmas, Jill's side of the family does a white elephant sort of gift exchange. There are 7 brothers and sisters in Jill's family. The number of siblings in the room determines how loud they are. The noise level of any room they occupy doubles for every additional sibling. Really.
noise = 2^(n-1) where n is the number of people. So it is exactly 32 times louder when they are all there than if it is just 2 of them (which is also loud).
Jill's brothers and sisters exclusively marry "listeners" so it works out. When it is just them in a room and no spouses, they are all talking at once. The volume ever increasing with the belief that if someone can't hear you, louder is the answer.
Generally speaking, they are all extremely competitive. And not just in one particular discipline. Everything is a contest.
Including the white elephant gift exchange. Every year, after the dinner and sitting around for a while, it's time for the 45 minute explanation of the rules of the gift exchange. There are arguments. Rules are amended and decided upon.
Oh yeah, and there's lots and lots of shouting.
I never bother to pay any attention to the rules. This certainly seems foolish to Jill's family, because I may miss out on some white elephant windfall due to poor strategy.
Generally - it works like this: We draw numbers. Number "1" opens the gift of his choice. Number "2" can take Number 1's gift or choose from the pile. Number 3 can choose 1 or 2's or open a new one, and so on. At the end, Number 1 can basically take any gift. If somebody steals your gift, you open a different gift.
There might be other rules and limitations, but that's the basic idea.
But the clear winner of Christmas is not the one who ends up with the most coveted gift. It is the person who brought that gift.
About 2 months before Christmas last year, Jill came home from Tuesday Morning knowing she was going to win this year. She knows her family and how they'd fight over something as silly as this ceramic dog clock.
It wasn't even fair.
Sadly, Jill was sick on Christmas and unable to see the hilarity. I called her during the height of the pandemonium so she could at least hear the reaction to Brigadier General George Barkington III. She was not at all surprised that her family had already named the dog.
"I knew it," was all she said, listening to the cries of "Cheat!" or "I'm getting that goddamn dog!"
The Dog clock was about the second of the gifts to be opened and it was stolen time and time again. Side deals were made. Alliances were formed and there was double crossing everywhere. In the end, the coordinated effort of a family of 4 with 3 entries was able to muscle the dog from the others.
An arbitrator was called in to verify that the winners did indeed have a valid claim to the statue.
A pair of brothers who share an apartment ended up with the statue. I ended up with a case of a variety of beers (Jill wasn't there, remember).
The funniest thing about all of it was the Dog Clock's name. It was sort of spawned from the melee of voices that make up any gathering of Jill's family. A clear loud deep voice rose from the crowd to dub it, "Brigadier General George Barkington III"
After we all got done laughing, we knew it was the dog's name.
So how is it that it is sitting over there on the bookshelf?
About two days after Jill bought it, she realized she liked it so much she had to have one for herself.
So we got one too, but even though it is an exact replica of the other one, it somehow feels like a cheap imitation. It would be the same if we'd wrapped this one and kept the other.
Kind of like buying trophies. Looks nice on the shelf, but you didn't really win it, did you cheater?
Also - I almost forgot. In case you're not convinced how cool this statue is, check out the styling ponytail ...
A few days ago, Rafal posted to his blog. It was a good read and you should check it out. He seems like a different person when he writes than when you talk to him - or rather listen to him - or rather get berated by him on the Facebook.
One thing he talked about was how quiet he noticed a lot of cyclists were during this Trans Iowa thing last weekend. He said that if they just wanted to look down and be quiet, fine. But they should know that Rafal's going to blab about any stupid little thing that comes to his mind.
Then I realized, he rides like I blog. And vice versa, or something.
So I was sitting here looking around for some inspiration. I thought maybe I should just call somebody and start shooting the breeze. A story would come to my mind in the process and I could write that down after I got off the phone.
That's when I looked over to the book shelf and saw good ol' Brigadier General George Barkington III.
If you've ever been to Tuesday Morning, you probably know where he came from. Now all you need to know is why.
Every Christmas, Jill's side of the family does a white elephant sort of gift exchange. There are 7 brothers and sisters in Jill's family. The number of siblings in the room determines how loud they are. The noise level of any room they occupy doubles for every additional sibling. Really.
noise = 2^(n-1) where n is the number of people. So it is exactly 32 times louder when they are all there than if it is just 2 of them (which is also loud).
Jill's brothers and sisters exclusively marry "listeners" so it works out. When it is just them in a room and no spouses, they are all talking at once. The volume ever increasing with the belief that if someone can't hear you, louder is the answer.
Generally speaking, they are all extremely competitive. And not just in one particular discipline. Everything is a contest.
Including the white elephant gift exchange. Every year, after the dinner and sitting around for a while, it's time for the 45 minute explanation of the rules of the gift exchange. There are arguments. Rules are amended and decided upon.
Oh yeah, and there's lots and lots of shouting.
I never bother to pay any attention to the rules. This certainly seems foolish to Jill's family, because I may miss out on some white elephant windfall due to poor strategy.
Generally - it works like this: We draw numbers. Number "1" opens the gift of his choice. Number "2" can take Number 1's gift or choose from the pile. Number 3 can choose 1 or 2's or open a new one, and so on. At the end, Number 1 can basically take any gift. If somebody steals your gift, you open a different gift.
There might be other rules and limitations, but that's the basic idea.
But the clear winner of Christmas is not the one who ends up with the most coveted gift. It is the person who brought that gift.
About 2 months before Christmas last year, Jill came home from Tuesday Morning knowing she was going to win this year. She knows her family and how they'd fight over something as silly as this ceramic dog clock.
It wasn't even fair.
Sadly, Jill was sick on Christmas and unable to see the hilarity. I called her during the height of the pandemonium so she could at least hear the reaction to Brigadier General George Barkington III. She was not at all surprised that her family had already named the dog.
"I knew it," was all she said, listening to the cries of "Cheat!" or "I'm getting that goddamn dog!"
The Dog clock was about the second of the gifts to be opened and it was stolen time and time again. Side deals were made. Alliances were formed and there was double crossing everywhere. In the end, the coordinated effort of a family of 4 with 3 entries was able to muscle the dog from the others.
An arbitrator was called in to verify that the winners did indeed have a valid claim to the statue.
A pair of brothers who share an apartment ended up with the statue. I ended up with a case of a variety of beers (Jill wasn't there, remember).
The funniest thing about all of it was the Dog Clock's name. It was sort of spawned from the melee of voices that make up any gathering of Jill's family. A clear loud deep voice rose from the crowd to dub it, "Brigadier General George Barkington III"
After we all got done laughing, we knew it was the dog's name.
So how is it that it is sitting over there on the bookshelf?
About two days after Jill bought it, she realized she liked it so much she had to have one for herself.
So we got one too, but even though it is an exact replica of the other one, it somehow feels like a cheap imitation. It would be the same if we'd wrapped this one and kept the other.
Kind of like buying trophies. Looks nice on the shelf, but you didn't really win it, did you cheater?
Also - I almost forgot. In case you're not convinced how cool this statue is, check out the styling ponytail ...
Thursday, April 24, 2014
How not to get your ass kicked by an old man
Not that I'm an authority or anything. I just think there are steps you can take to keep yourself from getting your ass kicked by an old man.
Every once in a while, there will be a story in the paper about how some old man beat up some young adult who meant to rob him.
It always goes like this:
Kid breaks into old man's house. Kid has weapon; Knife, gun, tire iron. Whatever.
He starts yelling at old man, threatening him. Old man takes weapon from kid and shoves it up kid's ass. He then keeps kid around so cops can fetch him.
The kid goes from thinking he's some sort of criminal badass to having some feeble old guy with a little moxie get the better of him.
This is sad. The shame. Can you imagine? As if that wasn't enough. The story is published online where the whole world can not only read, but also comment. You may not believe this, but most of the comments are from people praising the old guy and laughing at the kid. Some even think the kid deserves more punishment.
He does not. The humiliation of the events is enough. Rather than try to ruin a kid's future, wouldn't it be better if he could be reformed? If he could learn the basics of not getting his ass kicked by an old guy?
Yes, of course it would. That's the reason for this post. If I can help just one kid, I will feel I've done my job. Then I'll call in sick because I still have to go to my real job otherwise.
Here's a handy little guide I whipped up. I hope it helps. You're welcome whipper snappers.
1) Stay away from old people. Isn't it funny how often the answer is right there in front of us? Just don't try to take stuff from old guys. I know they look frail and weak, but they were your age once. If they can kick your ass now, just think what they would have done to you back then? Whew!
The good news is that if you don't provoke them, they will leave you alone. They didn't get to be old by starting fights.
2) Learn to fight - or at the very least, learn some basic self defense. You may never need to defend yourself against an old guy, but it's better to have it and not need it than - say it with me - need it and not have it. If you're going to be getting into showdowns with old people, 9 times out of 10, no problem. The old guy gives you his stuff and you're on your way. But that 10th guy? Is it worth getting beat up and laughed at by the community/world when you could have spent a couple of hours learning self-defense at the library? I think you know the answer. Get some training. A little goes a long way against old people.
3) Choose your target judiciously. If you absolutely must accost an old person, there are certain types you should avoid at all cost.
3-a) Thick glasses that look like they automatically darken in the sun. Watch out for these guys. They're worse than old guys in track suits. Whether or not they are/were ever in organized crime is irrelevant. They will beat your ass before their lenses have a chance to adjust to the light in the room/outdoors.
3-b) Old guys in track suits. These guys are in organized crime. Even if you should somehow get the better of one of these good fellows, there's a Colombian Necktie in your future.
3-c) Blurry tattoos. This may not be so easy to tell on a cold day. But if you are about to make your move and your "victim's" arm is stained with unintelligible blue blobs, just get away. This is probably a Marine (they tell me there are no ex-marines).
4) Mug other pussies like yourself. Again. Sorry if it's obvious. But since you can't handle old guys, others like you are most likely your best bet. Approach only other young "tough guy" criminals and you should be fine.
5) Don't go on a bike ride with Shim. About the quickest way to get your ass kicked by an old guy is to engage in this risky behavior. Just don't do it.
And Sceeeeeene!
Every once in a while, there will be a story in the paper about how some old man beat up some young adult who meant to rob him.
It always goes like this:
Kid breaks into old man's house. Kid has weapon; Knife, gun, tire iron. Whatever.
He starts yelling at old man, threatening him. Old man takes weapon from kid and shoves it up kid's ass. He then keeps kid around so cops can fetch him.
The kid goes from thinking he's some sort of criminal badass to having some feeble old guy with a little moxie get the better of him.
This is sad. The shame. Can you imagine? As if that wasn't enough. The story is published online where the whole world can not only read, but also comment. You may not believe this, but most of the comments are from people praising the old guy and laughing at the kid. Some even think the kid deserves more punishment.
He does not. The humiliation of the events is enough. Rather than try to ruin a kid's future, wouldn't it be better if he could be reformed? If he could learn the basics of not getting his ass kicked by an old guy?
Yes, of course it would. That's the reason for this post. If I can help just one kid, I will feel I've done my job. Then I'll call in sick because I still have to go to my real job otherwise.
Here's a handy little guide I whipped up. I hope it helps. You're welcome whipper snappers.
1) Stay away from old people. Isn't it funny how often the answer is right there in front of us? Just don't try to take stuff from old guys. I know they look frail and weak, but they were your age once. If they can kick your ass now, just think what they would have done to you back then? Whew!
The good news is that if you don't provoke them, they will leave you alone. They didn't get to be old by starting fights.
2) Learn to fight - or at the very least, learn some basic self defense. You may never need to defend yourself against an old guy, but it's better to have it and not need it than - say it with me - need it and not have it. If you're going to be getting into showdowns with old people, 9 times out of 10, no problem. The old guy gives you his stuff and you're on your way. But that 10th guy? Is it worth getting beat up and laughed at by the community/world when you could have spent a couple of hours learning self-defense at the library? I think you know the answer. Get some training. A little goes a long way against old people.
3) Choose your target judiciously. If you absolutely must accost an old person, there are certain types you should avoid at all cost.
3-a) Thick glasses that look like they automatically darken in the sun. Watch out for these guys. They're worse than old guys in track suits. Whether or not they are/were ever in organized crime is irrelevant. They will beat your ass before their lenses have a chance to adjust to the light in the room/outdoors.
 |
| My wallet, eh? |
 |
| I swear. I'm just gonna talk to the kid, sweetie. |
3-c) Blurry tattoos. This may not be so easy to tell on a cold day. But if you are about to make your move and your "victim's" arm is stained with unintelligible blue blobs, just get away. This is probably a Marine (they tell me there are no ex-marines).
 |
| Try not to bleed to death before the cops get here, princess. |
4) Mug other pussies like yourself. Again. Sorry if it's obvious. But since you can't handle old guys, others like you are most likely your best bet. Approach only other young "tough guy" criminals and you should be fine.
5) Don't go on a bike ride with Shim. About the quickest way to get your ass kicked by an old guy is to engage in this risky behavior. Just don't do it.
And Sceeeeeene!
Friday, April 18, 2014
I got nowhere else to go
This is the fourth time I've started tonight's post. The other 3 are fan-effin-tastic, but just not ready. Since I have to get something posted, I'm just going with the stupid boring old WNW report.
Last night was the first Wednesday Night ride I was able to attend this year. I want to work something out where I can go every week, but we'll see.
Recently I talked about inspiration coming from strange places. Well, I'm going to talk about it again.
On last night's ride was Jordan, Paul Webb, Lucas, Grant Rotunda (probably a real last name), Brady, Leah and that bad mofo on keyboard right now. Check it! [plays awesome keyboard riff]
I went on this ride having no idea about my fitness as it relates to the others. I haven't been on any group rides in a very long time. I didn't care if I got dropped, I just wanted to see where I was and decide what to do from there to kick everybody's ass next week.
The temperature during the ride went from about 60F to 40F. It was a strong NW wind. So the way out was brutal. We tried to paceline - but it was a mess. Echelon would have been ideal if the roads were closed, but what do I know?
The way back though - all tailwind. Nice. From Ft. Calhoun, we headed east toward Boyer chute. Spinning comfortably at 30MPH. Then we turned to the south and got organized. The paceline was going pretty smooth when there were murmurs of "we lost one."
Guys were kind of sitting up and saying, "Should we wait?"
I think the answer was "No."
Actually, I think if I hadn't dropped off, they would have wondered what to do for a while. But it was a gray cold night getting colder and grayer, and I've been alone on that road before and it really sucks. So I stopped pedaling. As soon as the rest of the group saw that I was going to wait for Leah, they moved along. They knew she wouldn't be left alone. All was fine. The race was on or whatever.
For me, it was a complete switch. Well, the rest of a complete switch. The first part of the switch happened a few days earlier. My son is getting excited about mountain biking and I'm finding myself putting his training before mine. It's a realistic look at life. Where am I going to take this bike racing thing? I'm 49.
Do not misunderstand. I will compete as hard as possible and do everything I can to reach my best. But some things are just more important. Big picture.
Big picture is we're on a remote road on a quickly darkening and chilly night. We should not leave somebody out there alone.
And here's the change. Normally, I would have done everything I could to stay with that front group. I probably would have lasted until the final big climb.
But on this night, I couldn't care less. There was this wonky feeling in my chest. I think people call it "compassion" or something. Not that Leah needs it. She's one of the toughest people I know. If you drop back to her on WNW, you better be serious or she'll kick your ass.
Unlike a lot of people, she doesn't gripe about it. She knows she's going to get dropped on this ride. That's why she's so strong. That's why she often laps the field in real races. She doesn't shy away from the dreaded WNW. If everybody was like that, we'd have 30 people show up every week.
There are a lot of guys who show up, get their asses kicked and never return. They could learn from Leah. They'd get faster if they rode with faster people.
After I had lost contact with the group and Leah was making her way to me, I noticed Brady was also drifting back. Nice. I've seen Brady do this on many occasions in the past, but only as I was continuing with the lead group.
So in the end, I rode back in with Leah and Brady. While we were riding I realized how much I admire these two riders. They are nothing alike, but there's a common attitude I see in them, that I see in few people.
They are up for any challenge.
Last winter, Rafal led a few of us on a cold 50MPH windy gravel ride in Iowa. It was brutal. We were exhausted. As we were heading home on our cross bikes, I joked to Brady, "Hey you wanna do a lap of Lewis and Clark real quick since we're right here?"
Brady said, "Not really, but I will."
That's the attitude. If somebody would have asked me if I wanted to do a lap, I would have said, and I quote, "No."
Oh say, that reminds me. Let me back up. I may have given the impression that I think these 2 are somehow special. I'm so sorry. I did not mean to do that. I mean, I'm sure they're great and everything, but certainly the rest of the group is a bunch of champions too. It's just that I'll never know about it because they insist on riding so far in front of me.*
And sceeeeene!
* Samuel L. Jackson is a genius: Sewer rat may taste like pumpkin pie, but I'll never know 'cause I ain't eatin' the filthy mother-fucker.
Last night was the first Wednesday Night ride I was able to attend this year. I want to work something out where I can go every week, but we'll see.
Recently I talked about inspiration coming from strange places. Well, I'm going to talk about it again.
On last night's ride was Jordan, Paul Webb, Lucas, Grant Rotunda (probably a real last name), Brady, Leah and that bad mofo on keyboard right now. Check it! [plays awesome keyboard riff]
I went on this ride having no idea about my fitness as it relates to the others. I haven't been on any group rides in a very long time. I didn't care if I got dropped, I just wanted to see where I was and decide what to do from there to kick everybody's ass next week.
The temperature during the ride went from about 60F to 40F. It was a strong NW wind. So the way out was brutal. We tried to paceline - but it was a mess. Echelon would have been ideal if the roads were closed, but what do I know?
The way back though - all tailwind. Nice. From Ft. Calhoun, we headed east toward Boyer chute. Spinning comfortably at 30MPH. Then we turned to the south and got organized. The paceline was going pretty smooth when there were murmurs of "we lost one."
Guys were kind of sitting up and saying, "Should we wait?"
I think the answer was "No."
Actually, I think if I hadn't dropped off, they would have wondered what to do for a while. But it was a gray cold night getting colder and grayer, and I've been alone on that road before and it really sucks. So I stopped pedaling. As soon as the rest of the group saw that I was going to wait for Leah, they moved along. They knew she wouldn't be left alone. All was fine. The race was on or whatever.
For me, it was a complete switch. Well, the rest of a complete switch. The first part of the switch happened a few days earlier. My son is getting excited about mountain biking and I'm finding myself putting his training before mine. It's a realistic look at life. Where am I going to take this bike racing thing? I'm 49.
Do not misunderstand. I will compete as hard as possible and do everything I can to reach my best. But some things are just more important. Big picture.
Big picture is we're on a remote road on a quickly darkening and chilly night. We should not leave somebody out there alone.
And here's the change. Normally, I would have done everything I could to stay with that front group. I probably would have lasted until the final big climb.
But on this night, I couldn't care less. There was this wonky feeling in my chest. I think people call it "compassion" or something. Not that Leah needs it. She's one of the toughest people I know. If you drop back to her on WNW, you better be serious or she'll kick your ass.
Unlike a lot of people, she doesn't gripe about it. She knows she's going to get dropped on this ride. That's why she's so strong. That's why she often laps the field in real races. She doesn't shy away from the dreaded WNW. If everybody was like that, we'd have 30 people show up every week.
There are a lot of guys who show up, get their asses kicked and never return. They could learn from Leah. They'd get faster if they rode with faster people.
After I had lost contact with the group and Leah was making her way to me, I noticed Brady was also drifting back. Nice. I've seen Brady do this on many occasions in the past, but only as I was continuing with the lead group.
So in the end, I rode back in with Leah and Brady. While we were riding I realized how much I admire these two riders. They are nothing alike, but there's a common attitude I see in them, that I see in few people.
They are up for any challenge.
Last winter, Rafal led a few of us on a cold 50MPH windy gravel ride in Iowa. It was brutal. We were exhausted. As we were heading home on our cross bikes, I joked to Brady, "Hey you wanna do a lap of Lewis and Clark real quick since we're right here?"
Brady said, "Not really, but I will."
That's the attitude. If somebody would have asked me if I wanted to do a lap, I would have said, and I quote, "No."
Oh say, that reminds me. Let me back up. I may have given the impression that I think these 2 are somehow special. I'm so sorry. I did not mean to do that. I mean, I'm sure they're great and everything, but certainly the rest of the group is a bunch of champions too. It's just that I'll never know about it because they insist on riding so far in front of me.*
And sceeeeene!
* Samuel L. Jackson is a genius: Sewer rat may taste like pumpkin pie, but I'll never know 'cause I ain't eatin' the filthy mother-fucker.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
It's that time of year!
It's been a few months, but we now get to share the keystone multi-use path with other people on bikes.
Oh yeah, old people ...
The message was clear: "Are you blind or just stupid? Can't you see this man is thirsty? All you care about is getting around him, regardless of whether or not he's in some serious need of hydration."
I have spoken before about the 4 or 5 things I learned last year that are of the utmost importance when it comes to cycling performance. Proper hydration is near the top of that list. So I was a little appalled by the unspoken message Janice was preaching at me. I shrugged as if to say, "You know what Janice? Don't tell me about the importance of proper hydration! I'm the hydration master. Got my technique down and everything. I don't be ticklin' or nothin'"*
What I didn't understand was why a deaf, blind, thirsty guy needed to be on the left side of the road to take a drink.
After I got done silently giving Janice the what for, I turned my attention back to Pinball Wizard and repeated the mantra "on your left" for a while. I even tried to make it all spooky sounding. drawing out the word "left"
Like, "Ooh scary. On your le-e-eft."
Nope.
Eventually, break time was over and Tommy returned the bottle to the cage. Finally. Now he has one less reason to tool along in the left lane.
Turns out Janice was wrong though. It seems the "None shall pass while I hydrate" rule was irrelevant. After Tommy took out a small napkin and carefully dabbed at the corners of his mouth to clean up any wayward liquid from his recent foray into dehydration. Sorry. That last sentence was stupid. I was just goofing around and now I don't feel like going back and fixing it. I'm certainly not going to read that piece of shit. Writing it was annoying enough.
That's when Janice spoke up, "Um, Thomas, this gentleman would like to pass."
Thomas got startled and almost swerved into Janice trying to get out of my way.
This made me laugh because Janice's excuse for Tommy not moving over was that he was drinking water. Now that he was done, she would help me get him out of my way. Like "That water thing? That's my story and I'm sticking to it."
But then after I passed and was on my merry way, I remembered something. Old people Love Roger [sic] Kipling. Maybe I had it all wrong. Janice was cleverly referencing Jungle Law. No attacks during the "water truce."
It is a time of drought in the jungle, the rains have failed, the green plants are dying in the heat, and most of the sources of water have dried up. Hathi, the wild elephant, proclaims the Water Truce according to the Law of the Jungle, so that all animals can come and drink at the shrunken Waingunga River with no fear of being killed by predators.-- Rudyard Kipling, How Fear Came, The Second Jungle Book
Naah. They're all just stupid old people with mirrors on their heads.
And sceeeeeene!
*Samuel L. Jackson is a genius.
I remember the first time I saw somebody with one of those bicycle specific rear view mirrors. Not those that attach to the handlebar and vibrate. Not even the ones that attach to a helmet. Nobody wore helmets back then. No, these clipped right on to eyeglasses.
There was this guy in our neighborhood who was kind of a "pussy" as my dad would have called him.
He usually wore light brown corduroy slacks and a sort of plaid greenish button down shirt. Also, he rode his bike everywhere. He had these leather strap things to secure the bottom of his pant legs so they wouldn't come to any harm at the hands (or teeth) of the bike's drive train.
I was probably 10 years old or so and when I realized what the mirror attached to his "spectacles" was, I thought it was one of the coolest contraptions ever. I knew I had to have one one day. I hadn't yet realized that humans, unlike cars, can turn their heads.
I've since changed my opinion about these ridiculous mirrors. I no longer feel that they are cool at all. But maybe old people can't turn their heads.
The three people I saw on the trail the other day all had helmet rear view mirror devices. They were all old. Older than me even. Who knows - maybe one of them was the guy from my neighborhood 40 years ago. Let's just say it was him. Let's also give him a name (♫ Tommy can you hear me? ♫).
The three people I saw on the trail the other day all had helmet rear view mirror devices. They were all old. Older than me even. Who knows - maybe one of them was the guy from my neighborhood 40 years ago. Let's just say it was him. Let's also give him a name (♫ Tommy can you hear me? ♫).
This geriatric group was riding exclusively on comfy bikes. When I was still about 200 yards behind them, they were riding 3 abreast. As I approached, one rider must have spotted my reflection from her fancy helmet-mirror-attach-o-matic because she fell in behind the one to the extreme right. Now they were 2 abreast. Progress!
I rolled up beside the one who had moved over and said, "on your left," to get the attention of the man now in my way. That worked about as well as his helmet mirror did (it had absolutely no effect).
I will say at this point that I don't really care. I'm patient about that sort of thing anymore. There are children and puppies and things on the trail. I'm not in a hurry. I'll move along when I can. It's all lollipops and butterflies for me these days. Caveat: Those stupid goose things that sit on the trail and don't move until you go by them and they kind of hiss at you and start to run toward you. Screw those guys. They suck. Maybe somebody should attach some kind of a beak rear view mirror on those assholes so it won't come as a complete surprise when the tenth cyclist in 25 seconds whizzes by.
Oh yeah, old people ...
So after a complete lack of reaction from the man in front me, I said again, a little louder, "On your left."
Nothing.
I could have sat behind him all day, saying on your left and giggling about it with Janice (that's what I'm calling the woman I was riding next to at this point). It wouldn't have bothered me at all. I thought it was funny.
I looked over to Janice to see if she was sharing my amusement. She wasn't. Also, she misinterpreted my glance in her direction. She probably took it as a plea from me to tell her old grandpa friend to get the hell outta my way.
It wasn't. I wanted to make fun of her deaf friend with her. But she couldn't understand that. Her slightly defensive response to me is the reason for this post. By way of explanation for Tommy's inaction, she said, "He's drinking water."
I could have sat behind him all day, saying on your left and giggling about it with Janice (that's what I'm calling the woman I was riding next to at this point). It wouldn't have bothered me at all. I thought it was funny.
I looked over to Janice to see if she was sharing my amusement. She wasn't. Also, she misinterpreted my glance in her direction. She probably took it as a plea from me to tell her old grandpa friend to get the hell outta my way.
It wasn't. I wanted to make fun of her deaf friend with her. But she couldn't understand that. Her slightly defensive response to me is the reason for this post. By way of explanation for Tommy's inaction, she said, "He's drinking water."
The message was clear: "Are you blind or just stupid? Can't you see this man is thirsty? All you care about is getting around him, regardless of whether or not he's in some serious need of hydration."
I have spoken before about the 4 or 5 things I learned last year that are of the utmost importance when it comes to cycling performance. Proper hydration is near the top of that list. So I was a little appalled by the unspoken message Janice was preaching at me. I shrugged as if to say, "You know what Janice? Don't tell me about the importance of proper hydration! I'm the hydration master. Got my technique down and everything. I don't be ticklin' or nothin'"*
What I didn't understand was why a deaf, blind, thirsty guy needed to be on the left side of the road to take a drink.
After I got done silently giving Janice the what for, I turned my attention back to Pinball Wizard and repeated the mantra "on your left" for a while. I even tried to make it all spooky sounding. drawing out the word "left"
Like, "Ooh scary. On your le-e-eft."
Nope.
Eventually, break time was over and Tommy returned the bottle to the cage. Finally. Now he has one less reason to tool along in the left lane.
Turns out Janice was wrong though. It seems the "None shall pass while I hydrate" rule was irrelevant. After Tommy took out a small napkin and carefully dabbed at the corners of his mouth to clean up any wayward liquid from his recent foray into dehydration. Sorry. That last sentence was stupid. I was just goofing around and now I don't feel like going back and fixing it. I'm certainly not going to read that piece of shit. Writing it was annoying enough.
That's when Janice spoke up, "Um, Thomas, this gentleman would like to pass."
Thomas got startled and almost swerved into Janice trying to get out of my way.
This made me laugh because Janice's excuse for Tommy not moving over was that he was drinking water. Now that he was done, she would help me get him out of my way. Like "That water thing? That's my story and I'm sticking to it."
But then after I passed and was on my merry way, I remembered something. Old people Love Roger [sic] Kipling. Maybe I had it all wrong. Janice was cleverly referencing Jungle Law. No attacks during the "water truce."
It is a time of drought in the jungle, the rains have failed, the green plants are dying in the heat, and most of the sources of water have dried up. Hathi, the wild elephant, proclaims the Water Truce according to the Law of the Jungle, so that all animals can come and drink at the shrunken Waingunga River with no fear of being killed by predators.-- Rudyard Kipling, How Fear Came, The Second Jungle Book
Naah. They're all just stupid old people with mirrors on their heads.
And sceeeeeene!
*Samuel L. Jackson is a genius.
Friday, April 04, 2014
Friday Extra: On Giving Up
It occurs to me that there are a few things that inspire me to continue riding. To not give up. I never know where they are going to come from and they don't always make a lot of sense, but they somehow become a part of my internal dialogue. Every once in a while I hear these things going on in my head and I stop and think, "Where does that come from?"
It's rarely some sort of amazing quote about being a hero or anything. Normally, it's an offhanded remark that probably was not intended to inspire at all. There are 3 of these pesky little proverbs that regularly speak to me from beneath consciousness. This morning I captured all 3 and was able to recall their origin.
Admittedly, the first one was from sort of a "win one for the Gipper" speech. It was an email from Brady about how I need to get back on the bike. This was maybe 3 years ago.
Brady:
I saw you at the Trek Store back in May.You were riding a lot back then. Now that Jack's back in school, can you resume commuting to work or something? How else are you getting your excercise? Golf doesn't count. Get back on it. You'd make great gains in a short time. Then we could ride sometime.
As stupid as that (and the movie) is, there's something there. When you are living, quitting is not an option. That's why giving up feels so crappy. Regret comes not from failing, but from not trying as hard as you can.
Boobies.
It's rarely some sort of amazing quote about being a hero or anything. Normally, it's an offhanded remark that probably was not intended to inspire at all. There are 3 of these pesky little proverbs that regularly speak to me from beneath consciousness. This morning I captured all 3 and was able to recall their origin.
Admittedly, the first one was from sort of a "win one for the Gipper" speech. It was an email from Brady about how I need to get back on the bike. This was maybe 3 years ago.
Brady:
I saw you at the Trek Store back in May.You were riding a lot back then. Now that Jack's back in school, can you resume commuting to work or something? How else are you getting your excercise? Golf doesn't count. Get back on it. You'd make great gains in a short time. Then we could ride sometime.
Then the prophetic:
When you get tired of golf, come back. Good times await.
The emphasized words above are what stuck for some reason. Don't know why. They are still there, driving. They are not alone though. They are accompanied by a quip Shim made last summer. This one drives me on as much as anything I've ever heard.
It was on the Wednesday night Trek store ride. The climb they call the Surfside KOM. I always get dropped there. In fact, after giving it everything several weeks in a row and failing, I wasn't aware of it, but I had stopped really trying. We'd all start up the hill and I was resigned to getting dropped. I'd sort of pull over and get into a rhythm for the rest of the climb. Slogging along until the regroup a few miles south of Dodge park.
It was on the Wednesday night Trek store ride. The climb they call the Surfside KOM. I always get dropped there. In fact, after giving it everything several weeks in a row and failing, I wasn't aware of it, but I had stopped really trying. We'd all start up the hill and I was resigned to getting dropped. I'd sort of pull over and get into a rhythm for the rest of the climb. Slogging along until the regroup a few miles south of Dodge park.
One week as I pulled over, Shim went by and said "Don't quit, Cube." There was no discernible emotion. It was matter-of-fact. The tone in his voice was almost one of impatience. Like I was taking a report card to my dad. He'd take one look and know I wasn't really trying.
So I thought, Oh alright. Then Shim slowed a bit to make sure I was on his wheel and pulled me for as long as I could hang on. I still got dropped, but I knew I went absolutely as hard as I could. Which was a lot harder than I thought I could.
When I need to hang on a little longer, I realize "quitting" isn't the way to get it done. I always hear "Don't quit, Cube," in that same accusing tone.
The last one still surprises me, but it's in there. It's from the movie "Joe Dirt." Seriously.
I haven't seen the movie in years, but it seems like Dennis Miller is giving Joe Dirt some crap for being such a big huge loser and why doesn't he just give up.
Joe Dirt is a big huge loser, but he always remains upbeat. He's spouting some philosophy and he says something like, "I gotta keep going. What am I gonna do, quit? That's not an option."
As stupid as that (and the movie) is, there's something there. When you are living, quitting is not an option. That's why giving up feels so crappy. Regret comes not from failing, but from not trying as hard as you can.
Boobies.
Thursday, April 03, 2014
Heh, Heh, Heh, No excuses, part 3 of 2.
Man I hate it when people make excuses. Also, I seem to have a problem with people who live in Phoenix. But that's not important right now. What is important is that now it gets real. It's April 3rd. The Wednesday Night World Superfast race thing has 2 weeks under its belt already. The first Nebraska road race weekend of the year is a distant memory from almost 2 weeks ago.
With the changing season, we're all going to be kicking the training up a notch. No more complaining about how (read this part with a really nasally mocking sound) "Oh, it's too cold and yucky out! Oh, I don't wanna get my widdow toes all cold and everything." No more gosh darn excuses. Get the fuck out there and ride. See?:
What? Snow?!? No fair! Waah!
I bring this up because my actual true reaction when I saw this was a little smile. Also, I chuckled a bit, saying, "Heh, heh, heh."
Admittedly, I have not put in near the miles I had at this time last year. Some of that is weather related, but most of it is just business around the house. The reason I wanted to add a part 3 of 2 (this post) was when I heard myself say "Heh, heh, heh!" I realized how true my post from fall (looking forward to winter) was.
So what if it snows? I'll figure some way to get a ride in. Or I won't. No biggie either way. This is drastically different from my attitude every year of my life until the last one.
I think I figured out why.
I'm old now. I believe that the older you get, the more important it is to stay active. Also, as life gets more complicated, it becomes increasingly difficult to stick to a regimen.
It's easy to come up with reasons not to exercise. Stuff that needs to be done around the house. Taking kids to events. Doing stuff with them. Injuries, illness and so on.
Or you could just say, "I'm too old for this sort of thing." Lots of people do that one.
I think the reason the weather doesn't bother me anymore is that it's less of a hindrance than the rest of the things in life that get in the way. Once the kids and house and work and stuff is taken care of and there's a chunk of time I can go for a ride - I'm not letting crappy weather stop me.
Life's too short to waste days waiting for a nice one. Unless you live in Phoenix. Then, the sooner your miserable life in hell is over, the better.
Also - I won't make an excuse about how short this post is. In fact, I'm sure most people prefer that. You're welcome, most people.
With the changing season, we're all going to be kicking the training up a notch. No more complaining about how (read this part with a really nasally mocking sound) "Oh, it's too cold and yucky out! Oh, I don't wanna get my widdow toes all cold and everything." No more gosh darn excuses. Get the fuck out there and ride. See?:
What? Snow?!? No fair! Waah!
I bring this up because my actual true reaction when I saw this was a little smile. Also, I chuckled a bit, saying, "Heh, heh, heh."
Admittedly, I have not put in near the miles I had at this time last year. Some of that is weather related, but most of it is just business around the house. The reason I wanted to add a part 3 of 2 (this post) was when I heard myself say "Heh, heh, heh!" I realized how true my post from fall (looking forward to winter) was.
So what if it snows? I'll figure some way to get a ride in. Or I won't. No biggie either way. This is drastically different from my attitude every year of my life until the last one.
I think I figured out why.
I'm old now. I believe that the older you get, the more important it is to stay active. Also, as life gets more complicated, it becomes increasingly difficult to stick to a regimen.
It's easy to come up with reasons not to exercise. Stuff that needs to be done around the house. Taking kids to events. Doing stuff with them. Injuries, illness and so on.
Or you could just say, "I'm too old for this sort of thing." Lots of people do that one.
I think the reason the weather doesn't bother me anymore is that it's less of a hindrance than the rest of the things in life that get in the way. Once the kids and house and work and stuff is taken care of and there's a chunk of time I can go for a ride - I'm not letting crappy weather stop me.
Life's too short to waste days waiting for a nice one. Unless you live in Phoenix. Then, the sooner your miserable life in hell is over, the better.
Also - I won't make an excuse about how short this post is. In fact, I'm sure most people prefer that. You're welcome, most people.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Flowers and Bunnies
Tour De Husker Road Race, Cat. 4, March 22, 2014. Raymond Ne. Temp: 23F
~~
I got a text after the race that asked me how I felt it went. I said something like, "Smart."
I've never really had any idea of what to do in a race before. I've only had the fitness for it to matter one other time. Even then, I wasn't exactly racing "smart."
I'm far from smart when it comes to racing tactics. I've learned a little from experience about not going in too big a gear too early, but otherwise I generally have no idea what to expect or what I should do in certain situations.
That's why I'm kind of glad I read This Book over the winter. It's a quick read and there's probably nothing in it that a Cat 1/2/3 guy doesn't already know. But as a lowly Cat 4, applying a couple of things they talked about helped me finish way higher than ever.
It talks about 2 things in particular that I have always done wrong in the past. Conserving energy and trying to figure out the winning breakaway.
First of all, after watching hours of the Tour De France every year, you can start to feel that all breakaways are doomed. This is hardly the case in amateur races.
Next, I always felt an obligation to do my fair share of the work in road races. I've changed my stand on that one also.
~~
I got a text after the race that asked me how I felt it went. I said something like, "Smart."
I've never really had any idea of what to do in a race before. I've only had the fitness for it to matter one other time. Even then, I wasn't exactly racing "smart."
I'm far from smart when it comes to racing tactics. I've learned a little from experience about not going in too big a gear too early, but otherwise I generally have no idea what to expect or what I should do in certain situations.
That's why I'm kind of glad I read This Book over the winter. It's a quick read and there's probably nothing in it that a Cat 1/2/3 guy doesn't already know. But as a lowly Cat 4, applying a couple of things they talked about helped me finish way higher than ever.
It talks about 2 things in particular that I have always done wrong in the past. Conserving energy and trying to figure out the winning breakaway.
First of all, after watching hours of the Tour De France every year, you can start to feel that all breakaways are doomed. This is hardly the case in amateur races.
Next, I always felt an obligation to do my fair share of the work in road races. I've changed my stand on that one also.
The night before the race, I looked at who had signed up. I knew that anything was possible, but I was mainly concerned with the people I know. I couldn't guess about the ones I don't
Of those, I thought the favorites had to be Travis Loewens, Jakob Wilson, Rich Anderson and Me.
Greg Hagele won the race, but I don't know him and had never met him. I think he was ranked highest on the USACycling race predictor thing, but since I didn't know which person he was, I couldn't really watch out for him. I don't know Rich Anderson either, but I saw him race at the Papillion Twilight Crit last Summer and he seemed pretty strong.
Travis and Jakob, I've ridden with on several occasions and we are all roughly at the same level.
So the people I decided to keep an eye on during the race were: Travis, Jakob, Rich, and Team Kaos.
Team Kaos and Greenstreet Velo each had 3 or 4 riders in our little 12 man group.
Husker Road Club had one rider. So I was the designated team captain, domestique, sprinter, etc.
Immediately after the neutral rollout is the first "climb". There was a little shifting for position. Tyler Loewens got to the front and was pulling. I was right behind him. I did not wish to pull. In fact, when I looked back, there was nobody behind me. The group was sitting about 5 yards back.
Screw that. I stopped pedaling and Tyler went up the road a ways until somebody from his team got his attention. He saw what was happening and slowed back into the group. Once we were all back together, Greg Hagele kind of jumped. He got about a 15 foot gap, then Jakob moved into action, grabbing his wheel. The rest of us didn't take it seriously and slowly got back with them where we all stayed a happy little group for the next 5 minutes.
Eventually, we turned right toward the east and had a cross wind from the left (North). I was three or four back, but I was on the left side (in the wind). I was looking around for an opportunity to get inside (the book warns about this sort of thing). Finally, I saw a spot and took it, nice and comfy along the edge of the road.
As I was settling in for a nice happy group ride and thinking about flowers and bunnies and stuff. The same Kaos Rider from before (Hagale) attacked. This time hard. Again, Jakob Wilson covered the move. They were moving away from us quickly. I saw another Kaos guy look at a GSV guy and kind of shrug. I was surprised. I didn't expect the members of these teams to give up the race so soon. Looking back on it, they probably all knew they had their best guy out there. They were happy to go easy and sprint for third place later on. That's when my team manager yelled into my headset, "Get the fuck in that breakaway! Allez, Allez!"
The Bunnies and flowers would have to wait. I looked down at ol' Bessie (I don't really call my bike that), tapped her gently on the top tube (not really), and asked her for all the speed she could muster. I had about 10 yards to bridge and I didn't want to pull anybody with me.
So I stood up and sprinted away, hoping like hell I wasn't dragging the rest of the pack. I did expect at least Travis or Rich Anderson to have hitched a ride. But no.
When I was about 10 feet from Jakob's wheel, I wasn't sure I would be able to grab it. I was beginning to get winded. Then Greg accelerated a little more.
Thankfully I got on as Greg let Jakob pull for a moment. When I went by Jakob to do my turn, I said something queer like, "Let's do this!" because at that time, I believed we'd be reeled in if we didn't all work together.
He nodded and we began to work beautifully together. Until 18 seconds later when Greg got to the front again and just hammered. Jakob and I basically just hung on from that point on. Greg didn't want to work together. We were ok with that. In the cross wind, he'd ride so we'd get the minimum benefit of the draft.
After about 3 or 4 minutes, I dared to look back at the main pack. I thought they'd be rolling right up to us.
They were not in sight. We had turned to the South and were on the dam with a tailwind.
Actually, I never saw the main group again during the race. I was positively giddy about that. Paul Sherwen kept saying "Out of sight, out of mind." I kept saying to Jakob, "This is so cool. They are not going to catch us."
On the second lap and going north into the wind up the hill, Greg went hard. I thought I might get dropped.
He did the same on the third (final) lap. Then finally, when we were getting to the top of the climb going east, Jakob, who was on Greg's wheel, let a gap open up. I went around Jakob and came close to getting on Greg's wheel, but could not. When I looked back, Jakob had popped.
I time trialed as best I could to keep Jakob away. All day, I had been thinking the worst I could do was third. Now it looked like second was the worst (and best) I could do.
When I approached the finish, it was so sweet to hear Lefler say my name (pronouncing it correctly and everything) and that I was coming in for second place. It was also awesome that he did not joke around when he said it. I would have been cool with it if he'd been like "What's this? Did Hinsley skip a lap or something?" Since last time I was in a race he was announcing was a cross race. I tripped over a barrier and fell face down into the mud. Lefler said, "Hinsley. Anything to get attention." He pronounced my name correctly that day too.
The next awesome thing was seeing that big old goofy grin of Munson's when I finished. I realized having a friend watch it happen was neat.
When Jakob came in and we were chatting about the day, he said, "I thought you'd drift back to me once you got dropped."
I might have if I hadn't lost to him on that unofficial hill climb race last fall. I guess that was another thing I learned.
When I was about 10 feet from Jakob's wheel, I wasn't sure I would be able to grab it. I was beginning to get winded. Then Greg accelerated a little more.
Thankfully I got on as Greg let Jakob pull for a moment. When I went by Jakob to do my turn, I said something queer like, "Let's do this!" because at that time, I believed we'd be reeled in if we didn't all work together.
He nodded and we began to work beautifully together. Until 18 seconds later when Greg got to the front again and just hammered. Jakob and I basically just hung on from that point on. Greg didn't want to work together. We were ok with that. In the cross wind, he'd ride so we'd get the minimum benefit of the draft.
After about 3 or 4 minutes, I dared to look back at the main pack. I thought they'd be rolling right up to us.
They were not in sight. We had turned to the South and were on the dam with a tailwind.
Actually, I never saw the main group again during the race. I was positively giddy about that. Paul Sherwen kept saying "Out of sight, out of mind." I kept saying to Jakob, "This is so cool. They are not going to catch us."
On the second lap and going north into the wind up the hill, Greg went hard. I thought I might get dropped.
He did the same on the third (final) lap. Then finally, when we were getting to the top of the climb going east, Jakob, who was on Greg's wheel, let a gap open up. I went around Jakob and came close to getting on Greg's wheel, but could not. When I looked back, Jakob had popped.
I time trialed as best I could to keep Jakob away. All day, I had been thinking the worst I could do was third. Now it looked like second was the worst (and best) I could do.
When I approached the finish, it was so sweet to hear Lefler say my name (pronouncing it correctly and everything) and that I was coming in for second place. It was also awesome that he did not joke around when he said it. I would have been cool with it if he'd been like "What's this? Did Hinsley skip a lap or something?" Since last time I was in a race he was announcing was a cross race. I tripped over a barrier and fell face down into the mud. Lefler said, "Hinsley. Anything to get attention." He pronounced my name correctly that day too.
The next awesome thing was seeing that big old goofy grin of Munson's when I finished. I realized having a friend watch it happen was neat.
When Jakob came in and we were chatting about the day, he said, "I thought you'd drift back to me once you got dropped."
I might have if I hadn't lost to him on that unofficial hill climb race last fall. I guess that was another thing I learned.
Thursday Morning Extra: Sorry there was no Wednesday Extra
I was going to talk about the one time I decided to run a 5K race on the keystone trail. At one time, I wanted to get a 50 minute seeded pass for the Corporate Cup. I thought If I could run a 5K in 25 minutes or less, that would be a good first step. I "trained" over the winter almost exclusively on U.P. treadmills. I'd run outside occasionally, but running is just a horrible thing. Long distance, slow running is exactly what we (humans) are evolved to do according to people who sit around all day and think about this stuff. So even though I hate it, I thought I'd give it a try. This was what my ancestors had worn out cattle for or something, so ...
It was a St Patrick's day sort of a race thing. There was food and beer at the finish line. Well - there was food and beer at the finish line while it lasted - which was considerably less than 25 minutes.
Anywho's, Coach Barry was also in the race. After he finished the race and knowing my goal, he kindly sauntered on back to where I was to pace me to the finish.
This might have been the very first BCM Pep Talk I ever got. He was saying things like, "See that guy up there. He's not going to finish in under 25 minutes. You know what that means? You're going to pass him. Or you're going to experience 100% failure. Plus, they're almost out of beer."
Well thanks to Coach Barry, I had something like 45 seconds to spare when I finished. I limped over to the keg for a nice red plastic cup full of warm Bud Light foam.
Then I never ran again.
Thanks again Barry.
It was a St Patrick's day sort of a race thing. There was food and beer at the finish line. Well - there was food and beer at the finish line while it lasted - which was considerably less than 25 minutes.
Anywho's, Coach Barry was also in the race. After he finished the race and knowing my goal, he kindly sauntered on back to where I was to pace me to the finish.
This might have been the very first BCM Pep Talk I ever got. He was saying things like, "See that guy up there. He's not going to finish in under 25 minutes. You know what that means? You're going to pass him. Or you're going to experience 100% failure. Plus, they're almost out of beer."
Well thanks to Coach Barry, I had something like 45 seconds to spare when I finished. I limped over to the keg for a nice red plastic cup full of warm Bud Light foam.
Then I never ran again.
Thanks again Barry.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Tuesday Extra: My Hill Climb Race Report
Well it wasn't actually, technically a sanctioned race or anything. It was a party the fine folks over at GSV put on annually. I'm not sure how it works because the idea was to ride around and climb some local hills and decide the winner based on their Strava times up those hills. The ride ended up at the top of Hummel park where there were burgers and all kinds of refreshments being served.
Before the "race" started, I heard someone say, "What's the prize for winning?"
I thought this was funny because there was no entry fee and food and drink at the end of the ride.
But the appropriate answer came back: "Ten thousand dollars."
Now I'm sure if you took a cross section of just about any group of people and put their I.Q.s up against your average group of cyclists, you'd see that there's not a lot of difference. No one group is necessarily more intelligent than any other.
Wait - did I just say "I'm sure"? Maybe I used to be, but not anymore. Cyclists are stupid.
There was some mumbling along the way about that huge prize. Some people actually believed it. Or maybe they were just pretending to believe it to try to make me believe it. Yeah - I'd rather think that way.
Of the people there at this Sunday morning group ride, most of the smart money was on whipper-snapper Grant Rotunda to take top honors (I'm still not convinced Rotunda is a real name - it is, however, awesome). Others had people like Jakob Wilson and yours truly as potential favorites.
I know this because more than one person rode up to me at various points in the ride to encourage me to go for the $10,000. Really. I'm not lying at all. They really did. I would say - there is no money, but I will go for a hamburger. Then they'd say something like - "no, the guy said ..."
Anyway, after some hills, Grant Rotunda, who was still sticking to that name, and I had a gap on the rest of the people. Grant pulled most of the way. The next big climb was called Llama Hill because there used to be Llamas or Alpacas or something in the yard at the top of the hill. I don't know. Maybe they're still there, but I haven't seen them in a while. Just before the hill, the main group caught up to Grant and me.
At the time, I had the Strava KOM on that climb. While we were going up the first section of the climb, Grant's chain fell off. I felt so sorry for him, I attacked. Jakob was right behind me. Then he bolted up the hill and I could not keep with him. He took my Strava KOM in the process.
After the climb, I caught up to Jakob and we worked together toward the finish - The dreaded north side Hummel climb. While we were on a long flat section toward the park entrance, Jakob looked back and saw that Grant was behind us with the main group farther behind him. He said we should sit up and wait. I agreed because Grant had done most of the work and had had some misfortune.
On the last climb, I decided I was happy with 3rd and pedaled "easy" up the hill. I had already been dropped earlier on Llama hill by Jakob. Grant was flying up Hummel. I was tired, so.
That was my second mistake.
Had Jakob and I continued to keep Grant away (we might not have been able to - but we should have tried)- I could have assured myself 2nd place.
While I was taking it easy up the Hummel climb, I was gaining on Jakob. Fast. Not fast enough to catch him, but I believe he was cooked from his effort up Llama hill. I should have given it all to beat him on that last climb. But I didn't.
So Grant got the $10,000.
But - I had my first non time trial podium. And even though it wasn't an actual race and some of the contestants were children, I was still happy with the result.
P.S. I shouldn't have to say this, but I think I need to. 10 seconds ago when I said "Grant got the $10,000." I was kidding. There was no money. The burgers were delicious, though.
Before the "race" started, I heard someone say, "What's the prize for winning?"
I thought this was funny because there was no entry fee and food and drink at the end of the ride.
But the appropriate answer came back: "Ten thousand dollars."
Now I'm sure if you took a cross section of just about any group of people and put their I.Q.s up against your average group of cyclists, you'd see that there's not a lot of difference. No one group is necessarily more intelligent than any other.
Wait - did I just say "I'm sure"? Maybe I used to be, but not anymore. Cyclists are stupid.
There was some mumbling along the way about that huge prize. Some people actually believed it. Or maybe they were just pretending to believe it to try to make me believe it. Yeah - I'd rather think that way.
Of the people there at this Sunday morning group ride, most of the smart money was on whipper-snapper Grant Rotunda to take top honors (I'm still not convinced Rotunda is a real name - it is, however, awesome). Others had people like Jakob Wilson and yours truly as potential favorites.
I know this because more than one person rode up to me at various points in the ride to encourage me to go for the $10,000. Really. I'm not lying at all. They really did. I would say - there is no money, but I will go for a hamburger. Then they'd say something like - "no, the guy said ..."
Anyway, after some hills, Grant Rotunda, who was still sticking to that name, and I had a gap on the rest of the people. Grant pulled most of the way. The next big climb was called Llama Hill because there used to be Llamas or Alpacas or something in the yard at the top of the hill. I don't know. Maybe they're still there, but I haven't seen them in a while. Just before the hill, the main group caught up to Grant and me.
At the time, I had the Strava KOM on that climb. While we were going up the first section of the climb, Grant's chain fell off. I felt so sorry for him, I attacked. Jakob was right behind me. Then he bolted up the hill and I could not keep with him. He took my Strava KOM in the process.
After the climb, I caught up to Jakob and we worked together toward the finish - The dreaded north side Hummel climb. While we were on a long flat section toward the park entrance, Jakob looked back and saw that Grant was behind us with the main group farther behind him. He said we should sit up and wait. I agreed because Grant had done most of the work and had had some misfortune.
On the last climb, I decided I was happy with 3rd and pedaled "easy" up the hill. I had already been dropped earlier on Llama hill by Jakob. Grant was flying up Hummel. I was tired, so.
That was my second mistake.
Had Jakob and I continued to keep Grant away (we might not have been able to - but we should have tried)- I could have assured myself 2nd place.
While I was taking it easy up the Hummel climb, I was gaining on Jakob. Fast. Not fast enough to catch him, but I believe he was cooked from his effort up Llama hill. I should have given it all to beat him on that last climb. But I didn't.
So Grant got the $10,000.
But - I had my first non time trial podium. And even though it wasn't an actual race and some of the contestants were children, I was still happy with the result.
P.S. I shouldn't have to say this, but I think I need to. 10 seconds ago when I said "Grant got the $10,000." I was kidding. There was no money. The burgers were delicious, though.
Monday, March 24, 2014
Monday Extra: My road race report.
Since everybody wants to read about the details of the lower category local area road races, I thought I should report on mine.
I was pretty sure I was about roughly as good as a cat 3 rider and after a couple of races in the cat 5s, I'd prove that I should just be placed up in the cat 3s. I didn't know anything about upgrades. I figured they probably just looked at you or something and they could tell.
There had been a crit or something already that season. I don't remember where it was, but newcomer, cat 5 Jon Randell won it. I had never met Jon, but his name sounded to me like he was probably pretty fat. I was so sad that I hadn't signed up for that race because I was pretty sure I would have won and this Jon Randell character would have had to settle for second place where he deserved. Stupid fatass I'd never met.
A couple of weeks later, there was another race I didn't do (this was in the Armstrong days. There were lots of races without beer handups). Jon Randell won that one. Nebraska cycling quoted him, "That was fun. You guys do this every year?" or something. I thought, "It won't be so fun when I'm kicking your fat ass, Randell. Why don't you just give up now and go race clydesdale in mountain biking?"
That was it. I had to race. I had already placed pretty high in RAGBRAI the year before and then bought a new LeMond Zurich with the fancy integrated brake shifter things. I had raced the Corporate Cycling Challenge Super Serious Race on it and was pretty happy with my performance there. There was the one guy riding on a mountain bike with jean shorts who dropped me like I was standing still, but otherwise I figured I was the fastest guy out there (at the Corporate Cycling Challenge Super Serious Race) that day.
So the first road race I signed up for was held at Branched Oaks. It was 2 laps around the lake. It was a calm day. Ok, I can't keep a straight face. It's never a calm day at the lake.
I looked around for a fat guy in an Athletic Junction Jersey, but only saw Munson and a shorter athletic looking guy. Uh oh.
Jon Randell was nowhere near as fat as his name made him sound.
So the 18 or so cat 5 racers took off down from Lieber's point to the start of the actual racing. As we turned onto the road heading north to make the first ascent, I was dropped. It took 9:23 seconds for me to get dropped. About 8 minutes of that were neutral rollout.
I rode solo for those 2 laps as hard as I could around the course for about 2 hours (I finished 3 laps quicker Saturday). I was too dumb to know at the time that I would not catch the group that had dropped me. I finished. Second to last place (of the finishers). People said something about "at least you finished" but I didn't feel too good about it. Nobody seemed to think I should upgrade to Cat 3 either.
I had some work to do if I was going to win my next race. Especially after Randell had instantly lost all that weight in my mind.
I was pretty sure I was about roughly as good as a cat 3 rider and after a couple of races in the cat 5s, I'd prove that I should just be placed up in the cat 3s. I didn't know anything about upgrades. I figured they probably just looked at you or something and they could tell.
There had been a crit or something already that season. I don't remember where it was, but newcomer, cat 5 Jon Randell won it. I had never met Jon, but his name sounded to me like he was probably pretty fat. I was so sad that I hadn't signed up for that race because I was pretty sure I would have won and this Jon Randell character would have had to settle for second place where he deserved. Stupid fatass I'd never met.
A couple of weeks later, there was another race I didn't do (this was in the Armstrong days. There were lots of races without beer handups). Jon Randell won that one. Nebraska cycling quoted him, "That was fun. You guys do this every year?" or something. I thought, "It won't be so fun when I'm kicking your fat ass, Randell. Why don't you just give up now and go race clydesdale in mountain biking?"
That was it. I had to race. I had already placed pretty high in RAGBRAI the year before and then bought a new LeMond Zurich with the fancy integrated brake shifter things. I had raced the Corporate Cycling Challenge Super Serious Race on it and was pretty happy with my performance there. There was the one guy riding on a mountain bike with jean shorts who dropped me like I was standing still, but otherwise I figured I was the fastest guy out there (at the Corporate Cycling Challenge Super Serious Race) that day.
So the first road race I signed up for was held at Branched Oaks. It was 2 laps around the lake. It was a calm day. Ok, I can't keep a straight face. It's never a calm day at the lake.
I looked around for a fat guy in an Athletic Junction Jersey, but only saw Munson and a shorter athletic looking guy. Uh oh.
Jon Randell was nowhere near as fat as his name made him sound.
So the 18 or so cat 5 racers took off down from Lieber's point to the start of the actual racing. As we turned onto the road heading north to make the first ascent, I was dropped. It took 9:23 seconds for me to get dropped. About 8 minutes of that were neutral rollout.
I rode solo for those 2 laps as hard as I could around the course for about 2 hours (I finished 3 laps quicker Saturday). I was too dumb to know at the time that I would not catch the group that had dropped me. I finished. Second to last place (of the finishers). People said something about "at least you finished" but I didn't feel too good about it. Nobody seemed to think I should upgrade to Cat 3 either.
I had some work to do if I was going to win my next race. Especially after Randell had instantly lost all that weight in my mind.
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