Friday at 3AM extra. Inspiration.

I've decided it would not be right to take credit for my last post (below) without acknowledging my inspiration for that post:

~~

Mark Savery

33 mins · Omaha, NE

It's almost TdF time, which means if you're not thinking about CX season you should be. Here's a few pointers to help you get ready even though you may have some road or mountain bike races left.

Get off road - Grab your CX bike and hit the singletrack one day a week. This will help hone your handling skills and get your body ready for the jarring bumps of skinny tires and no suspension off-road.

Get to the core - Core strength is often the difference between finishing strong or fading to the back of the pack. No better time to start strengthening your core than now.

Get on the gas - If you're already racing road or mountain you're probably doing a couple hard workouts a week already. If you're not, time to get out and do a fast group ride, intervals or even a criterium or mountain bike race.

Get out the notebook - Make a list of the races you want to do and your equipment needs for the season and start checking off the list. Cross races can be won in the details, don't leave it until the last minute.

Hop on the G.R.O.N.K.-A-Vator

By Mark Savery.  But not that Mark Savery.  A completely different one.

Hello there.  If you're like me (don't worry.  you're not), you are busy trying to figure out what to do with yourself until September.  Since God is cruel, every year we have to suffer through 3 completely worthless seasons waiting for the only one that matters.  Of course I'm talking about Cross season.

But don't just sit there on your duff waiting for cross season.  It's high time to take your training for the "off" season to the next level.  That's why I developed G.R.O.N.K.  a complete world class training program to ensure that the next time you drink a beer while you're racing, you are in tip top form.

Summarizing my patented FB status, the G.R.O.N.K. system has EVERYTHING you need to become almost as good as me this fall.

G. - Turn on the Gas.
R. - Road?  Get Off it.
O. - Off.  I said off the road, bitch.
N. - Watch "The Notebook"
K. - Core is the Key

In just a minute,  I'm going to explain exactly what the 5 (4 actually, well 3 and a movie) steps are and how they will bring you to max cross fitness.  But first I have another question for you.  Do you hate when the Tour De France is on because it means you only have about 9 weeks of training left before the start of off-season racing?  Well not this year!  This July, while hundreds of gallons of synthetic blood is making its way up the Alps and Pyrenees, You'll be G.R.O.N.K-ing*!

If you're ready, let's start.

G. Turn on the Gas.  I can't overstate this.  By turn on the gas, I don't mean literally.  I mean go for some hard rides and stuff.  The beauty of my program is in its flexibility.  To turn on the gas, you can go for a group ride, do a crit or even a mtn bike race.  I don't really care.

R. (and O.)  Off season Cross racing involves a combination of riding on the pavement, through the grass and even running like an idiot carrying your stupid bike.  Damn.  Running.  I should have made 'Running' the 'R' one.  That makes a lot more sense than repeating the "Off road" thing.  Oh well - anyway - when you ride off road, you will gain the valuable experience of a bumpy ride, if you know what I mean, ladies.  Wink wink.

N. We will come back to 'N'

K.  Core is key.  Actually this one doesn't matter at all.  But you don't sell books telling people to go around "Gron-ing"

Ok, back to 'N' - watch 'The Notebook'.  I love this movie.  Cry my eyes out every Saturday Night.  I have  a big box of rainbow themed tissues right next to the davenport for just this movie.  But how does that relate to Cross Racing?  The harder you sob, the more you'll develop the core muscles.  The constant abdominal spasms of emotion you suffer will be well worth it when you toe it this September.  Plus - Ryan Gosling?  More like Ryan Rawrr!

So that's really all there is to it.  Follow these few simple tips and I'll see you after the Vuelta!  Well, until the starting gun goes off, that is.  Then you'll see me for a while ...


* G.R.O.N.K.ing is not to be confused with the failed internet fad known as 'Gronking'.

You really should read the link first. I promise. Especially if your name is Travis or Tyler. Or Todd, I guess.

Good thing a picture's worth 1000 words, cause I ain't writing shit tonight.

Somewhere around September 20, 2013, I posted a Friday Extra.  Please go back and read it.  Because this post is about the same person.  Doing the same thing.  But this time, it's personal.

Ok so in case you don't go back and read it, I'm going to rewrite the parts from the last one that are similar enough to this one to let you know that we are all just reading a script.  By the way, this story happened Monday 6-16-2014.  So yes.  Same circumstances, different day.

I got into work at around 7 o'clock Monday because I was itching to find the reason that a certain piece of code was seg-faulting.  At around 7:30, I'm close.  I am zeroing in on the exact scenario that causes the service to eat shit.

By the way, this is not my code.  I've written plenty of code that crashes, but nothing this horrible.  The good thing is that code this bad is easy to improve.  The bad thing is, when you find and fix a bug, you often cause all of the crap after it that was hacked together to make the past mistakes run "properly" take a huge dump.

What happened here is "moron who shall not be named" who is also thankfully no longer with the company, was using a bunch of "C" functions to manipulate "C++" stl stuff.  Not necessarily wrong, but stupid and asking for trouble.

Just as I was homing (honing?) in on the suspect code, a voice jabs its way through my concentration.

I'm madly moving my mouse around, punching out commands and shifting my eyes from one to the other monitor as I see the culprit.  Then Don says, "This kid I know, he rides bikes."

I don't know what it was.  Maybe it was the subject.  Maybe I was curious where this was going since it was not about pirates or donuts.

I was still thinking I could maybe crack the case before Don and I had our little chat, but I knew it was foolishness.  I was actually in a good mood because I knew that I was going to find that stupid bug in a few minutes even if I was interrupted by the always pleasant and conversational Don.

"Yeah,"  Don continued as I shifted my gaze to him.  I was not expecting anything interesting, but he said, "I guess he did a mountain bike race on Saturday or something."

That's interesting.

"Yeah, he must have crashed because he posted a bunch of photos of his back being all scratched up.  His name's Loewens.  Tyler Loewens."

"Travis," I said.  "Tyler was at BRAN".

"He rode a cross bike and ended up 3rd in the race in his class,"  I continued.

"So you know him?"

"uh"

"Anyway," Don continued, "It's funny because Tyler used to be kind of heavy.  He likes his beer.  But since he's taken up cycling he's lost a bunch of weight."

"Travis,"  I corrected.

"Ok see you later, Steve," Don said.

Then Don walked away to burn some popcorn.*

*If you ever see me post a status update on FB about burnt popcorn in the office, it's probably Don who did it.  Don says he doesn't burn popcorn, but I think he eats popcorn every day, so I'm blaming him.  He usually burns it when I'm just about to solve some programming puzzle.

Collective Soul

Long before I realized that Pearl Jam was the greatest band that has ever been or ever will be, I thought Collective Soul was pretty good.  I certainly liked them a lot more than I liked Pearl Jam back then.

I didn't see Pearl Jam at the Ranch Bowl.  I saw Collective Soul.  It was outside in the volleyball area.  It was roughly 100 degrees out.  My buddy Kevin and I slowly worked our way right up to the front of the stage.  We were drenched with the sweat of the crowd. The show was lots and lots of fun.  The Lead singer guy was continuously dowsing us with ice cold water to keep everything cool.

We cheered and rocked and had a really great time in the frenetic crush of the crowd.

Then a few years later, I saw them again.  It was the first (and only) time I bought tickets for a show to see the opener.  Collective Soul was opening for Creed.  I didn't hate Creed yet, but I didn't care if I saw them or not.  I went with my wife and her sisters.  I was all excited about Collective Soul.  I was telling the girls how at the Ranch Bowl, they opened with my favorite song "Where the River Flows"  which is such a fine rocking good song, it just makes me smile all serene and shit.

Well guess what?  They opened with that same song at the Civic.

After they were done with their set, we all agreed that that was one hell of a great performance.  The lead singer guy is a master at throwing the microphone stand around.  He spins it way high in the air or knocks it over and somehow catches it and brings it back.  All while rocking out quite pleasantly.

Then Creed came out and everyone felt the need to take a shower or confess or something. Anything to get the Creed out. On the way home from that concert we all agreed it would have been perfect if we'd left when Collective Soul was finished.  That was when I started hating Creed.

So Saturday, we went to the Stir Concert Cove to see Creed.  Just kidding.  We went to see Collective Soul.  The Lead Guitar guy looked like he probably wasn't the original since I don't remember any toddlers playing lead guitar at the Ranch bowl.  But the singer, other guitar guy and bass player were probably the originals.

The Gin Blossoms opened for Collective soul.  Even though they're not the guys who sang the "Friends" theme song, I thought they were because every one of their songs sounds like the "Friends" theme song.  In fact, I was hearing songs I recognized, saying, "Now this is definitely the Friends theme song, right?  No?  Hmm."

"Singin, I'll be there for you ..."

Kind of makes me feel foolish that I started that chant,  "FRIENDS THEME SONG!"

Anyway - after that finally ended, Collective soul came out and I didn't even dare to hope that they'd open with "Where the River Flows"

But would you believe it?  No, me neither.  They played something else that rocked pretty hard.  Just not "Where the river flows" hard.

So the front of the stage was kind of crowded, but nothing like the press from before or the time I got to the front at the Red Hot Chili Peppers.  Now that was a crush of people.

Here it was all please and thank you.  There was lots of elbow room, but most people understood that you were not to squeeze in front of someone.  It was seen as bad Council Bluffs manners or something.

In any event, I patiently wormed my way up to about the 6th row where I was content.  My friends had made it with me for the most part and we were having a good time.

After Dark, there was a little pushing and shoving going on as the songs got more energetic.  There was the slightest of pressure from all sides, but way less than I was used to.  I had my forearm in front of me because I didn't want to press my chest up against the guy in front of me.

I took this to decide if I should get a different camera before Pearl Jam.  Yeah, I should.  Anyway, all the originals that remain are in this photo.

Then the best song (Where the River Flows) started.  I was pushed from behind in the excitement, causing me to push on the back of the guy in front of me.  He turned and said "Don't push on my back!"

I said, "Yeah I know! This song is fucking awesome!"

He said, "NO!  DON'T PUSH ON MY BACK!"

Oh.  Sorry.  I had forgotten my council bluffs GA Pit manners.  I was ashamed.  From then on, I tried to not make physical contact with this guy in front of me who wants to be in the crowd, but hates being touched (or so I thought).

Here's where I started to realize that the people who go to concerts at Stir Cove need to chill the fuck out and just have a good time.  I mean, let's just enjoy the music and stuff.

After that song, a few people in front of us bailed and we got to about the 4th row.  Then something very weird happened.

There was a guy there with his woman.  They were mid 40s and she was having way more fun rocking out to the smooth beat than any of us.  She was smiling and singing all the words to all the songs.  A true fan.

The guy was about 6'2".  Three young, shortish girls kind of weaseled their way in front of this guy.  I thought, so what?  They're shorter than him and he didn't get pushed back or anything.

Then the weird thing happened.  This jerk tapped one of the girls on the shoulder.  She was surprised.  He bent down and was obviously scolding her for cutting or something.  Stupid.  Anyway, he yelled at them until they left.

I was thinking, geez, that would not be a very fun way to enjoy music.  In fact, it would suck.

So the next thing I did was concentrate on enjoying myself.  I started letting shorter people in front of me, etc.

Then my buddy "Don't touch my back" guy made a fatal error.  He cut in front of that "No cuttsies" douche.

What do you think the guy did?  These weren't little girls.  This was a man.  A decent sized man with a strong back and nice muscular shoulders.  Ahem.

Well "No cuttsies" actually took his hand and grabbed Mike's (that was the don't touch my back, cutter's name) ball cap from of his head and threw it to the ground.

This act caused sort of a confrontation.  They looked at each other for a while.  I was immensely entertained.  It seemed so just.  The two guys who have no clue about crowd dynamics are facing off.  Brilliant.  I felt like Willy Wonka after Charlie pressed that one button on the Wonkavator.  I had no idea where this was going, but I was thrilled with whatever outcome.  I had a great vantage point to this impending nightmare.

But as is usually the case, big guys who pick on little girls will back down in the face of, well a face.

Mike did the "I got my eye on you" thing where you point your index and middle finger at your eyes and then at the eyes of your opponent.  Then Mike, bless his heart refused Douchebag's exhortation that he should go back.  Mike kept dancing.  Powerless, Douchebag and his girlfriend left the crowd in disgrace.

Afterwards, I said to Mike (carefully and without touching him at all) "What a dick that guy was."

"Yeah that hat was more than just a hat to me.  I'm Mike.  I'm from Minneapolis."

Then we all rocked out for a while.  At a lull, I looked down to about where I figured Mike's hat would be.  Miraculously, it was unstomped.

I grabbed it and offered it to Mike.  Then he insisted that I not only touch his back, but give him a big old hug because I had just retrieved the only thing he had left in this world to remember his brother or something. I don't remember what it was exactly but it was pretty damn important.  Also - then why the hell wasn't he looking for it?  Anyway, I'm pretty sure it all ended with a big manly hug.  Or did it ...

My hat came with my USGA membership, so it's pretty important too.

A Helpful Guide

Do you know Mark Crown?  I do.  Great guy.  He's been commuting every day via the Keystone for at least as long as I can remember.  Before Jack (Age 11) was born, even.  I've had many conversations with him about nothing in particular.  Just a nice guy to chat with as you ride on down the trail.  Also, he laughs a little like Jon Randell.  R.I.P.  Sniff.

Helpful Guide tip #1: Jon Randell is not dead.  He's just resting in peace from cycling.

Anyway, Mark Crown.  A few months back, there was an article in the Omaha World Herald about him.  At that time, I only knew him as "Mark."  One morning, my uncle called me and said to me, "Do you know a guy by the name of Mark Crown?"

"No," I said.

"Well, there's a nice article about how he rides his bicycle (my uncle never calls it a "bike") to work every day of the year.  I figured all you guys know each other."

I thanked him for letting me know about it and started reading the article.  Then I was all, "Oh Mark.  Yeah I know that guy."

"I thought you bicycle riders all knew each other,"  Uncle reiterated.

"I guess you was right,"  I said, in tribute to the way my uncle's best friend (AKA my dad) talks.

Sometimes, the Omaha World Herald wants Mark Crown to blog about his whole "biking year round" and the associated implications.  He's happy to comply.  Turns out, blogging for a newspaper is much different than blogging to try to get your buddies to laugh.  Boobies!

For instance, there's a painful copy editing process that goes on with newspaper blogging.  Also, OWH doesn't want Mark Crown to just blog any old thing whenever the hell he feels like it.  They provide a topic and when they want it.

Personally, I think that's kind of cool.  Also, I think the Omaha World Herald is pretty.

So with all this Mark Crown mania (do you have your T-shirt yet?) around town, everybody wants to join in the act.  Everybody wants to be able to say "Yeah - I know Mark Crown."

Some even dare to dream.  Some are just chomping at the bit for a chance to greet Mark Crown in person.

Helpful guide tip #2: To greet Mark Crown in Person, say "Hi Mark" as your paths cross on the trail.  Congratulations.  You've talked to a celebrity.

"But Cube.  How will I know it's The Mark Crown I'm greeting?" asked the audience.

That's what this guide really is about.  How to tell you are greeting THE Mark Crown and not some fair weather Fred on his way to work at the company.

All bicycle (thanks uncle) riders look pretty much the same.  Except guys on recumbents.  For some reason, guys on recumbents always look like hippy college professors that knew Steve Jobs personally.

I don't know why.  That's just the impression I get when I see that stupid orange flag waving side-to-side.

But every other kind of bike looks essentially the same from a distance.  When someone is approaching me on the trail, I can tell from quite a distance if it is a fit road cyclist or not.  I judge the rider girth and kit and narrow down the possibility of me knowing the person the closer s/he gets.  This is a fun game we all play.  On a recent ride, Barry, Tri-Sam and I saw 3 Greenies (riders in Gin Soaked kits).  One guy and 2 girls.  Barry and I conferred afterward and decided we didn't recognize the guy, but the girls were Kaitlin and Carly (we think).

Now to the Mark Crown identification guide.  If it is really shitty weather out and there is a cyclist, go ahead and say "Hi Mark," as you pass.  It's probably him and if not; who cares?  It's really shitty out.  Why are you talking?

Things to look for to properly identify Mark Crown.

The bike:
 Red Cannondale Cross bike.  This bike is about 1000 years old. It's hard to miss.  Often times these are mistaken for 2002 LeMond Zurich Road bikes that are powder coated a bright yellow, so be careful.  When you see a red cannondale cross bike don't just yell "Hi Mark" until you verify that it is not a yellow LeMond road bike.  I can assure you, this is a common mistake.

The Kit:
Ok, this one is tricky.  Mark Crown always wears a nice Capo Kit.  Sometimes, Fair Weather Fred going to the company also wears a very similar kit.  But usually, he's wearing some mismatched Twin Six crap from about 5 years ago.


The Cargo carrying system:

Mark - Panniers.
Me Fair Weather Fred - Super nice Banjo Bros Backpack.


The Face:
Since the kit is often not much help at all, if you can't tell the difference between red and yellow, you could look at the rider's face.

Mark's face looks like this:

Whereas my Fair Weather Fred's face looks like this:

So that's pretty much it.  Now that this has been blogged you have no excuse.  In fact, after today, I'd advise against going home and bragging to whomever will listen "Guess who I said 'Hi' to today."

Because if it was some droopy looking dude on a yellow bike with no panniers, you said 'Hi' to Fred, not Mark*.  Idiot.

And sceeeeeeeeene!

*Unless it was a guy on a Trek cross bike.  Then it actually was A Mark.  It was not The Mark though.  It was Mark Savery and nobody would believe you if you said you greeted him.  That's a whole different kind of celebrity there.

Death Bed

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.

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.

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.

I'm pretty sure that was the end of the joke, but I want to add the following:

The clerk looked down at the soiled counter, swallowing hard against the torrent rising from deep within his bowels.  As the clerk regained control of the internal storm, the sweat forming on his brow was replaced by a wan smile that crossed his face.  Finally, the clerk's composure returned.  He slapped the newcomer on the back and shouted, "Welcome to Missouri, son!"

Then we saw the mountains and we knew it.  They are really quite majestic.  A little later we saw the sign:

Happy Friday and thanks for reading about diarrhea in a leaky paper bag!

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".

Challenge completed.  79, bitches!

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:

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.

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

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

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

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

So what?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I ’m out of shape

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

It takes too long

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

It’s too far

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

It’s raining

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

The roads aren’t safe

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

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

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

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


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

I ’m out of shape

• Harden The Fuck Up.

It takes too long

• Harden The Fuck Up.

It’s too far

• Harden The Fuck Up.

No bike parking

• Harden The Fuck Up.

My bike is beat up

• Harden The Fuck Up.

No showers

• Harden The Fuck Up.

I have to dress up

• Harden The Fuck Up.

It’s raining

• Harden The Fuck Up.

The roads aren’t safe

• Harden The Fuck Up.

I have to run errands

• Harden The Fuck Up.

charlie the perv

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

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

I will talk about my own brush with a pedophile.

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

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

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

Everybody.  Say Perrrrrrrrrv!

   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Edit: Some additional thoughts/revelations ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brigadier General George Barkington III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn't even fair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

How not to get your ass kicked by an old man

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

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

It always goes like this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My wallet, eh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Sceeeeeene!

I got nowhere else to go

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think the answer was "No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They are up for any challenge.

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

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

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

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

And sceeeeene!

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